


there are no more guns in the valley.

by billielurked



Series: there are no more guns in the valley [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Arthur Morgan Lives, F/F, Fluff and Angst, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Post-Canon Fix-It, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Southern Gothic, Supernatural Elements, Trans Arthur Morgan, Weird West, Werewolves, haunted houses and haunted bayous and a whole lot of intimate hand touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-09-02 11:11:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 62,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20274955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/billielurked/pseuds/billielurked
Summary: Even after his trial by fire, Arthur Morgan will have no time to rest. Sickness leaves a mark on a man, but even sickness can fade; now it's time for real redemption, for the hard work, for trudging through the swamps to uncover terrible secrets, and close calls with unnatural monsters. Now is the time for healing, second chances, and overcoming terror.And it's up to Charles to find him through it all, and to do what he can for the good of those around him.





	1. a simple life, a beautiful death.

**Author's Note:**

> a man has to be what he is, joey, can't break the mold. there's no living with a killing, there's no going back. right or wrong its a brand; a brand that sticks. now you run on home to your mama and you tell her everything's alright. there are no more guns in the valley.

Nature towards the north was as beautiful as it was unforgiving. The chill invaded her every sense; the moon hung above, cool and blue, casting sharp shadows across the trees surrounding her. Through forced habit Charlotte Balfour checked for her gun, the string of bullets kept round her belt, and for the hunting knife kept strapped to her thigh. 

It wouldn't be right to live so long and through so much, only to be taken by surprise by some creature without any protection within reach. 

"Alright, Missy," she spoke to her horse, her voice so quiet she herself could scarcely hear it. "I think it is  _ high _ time we ladies turn in for the night." 

She had been down in Annesburg restocking supplies with her wagon. Unknowingly, she had passed into Murfree Country not far from the hills, seeking more herbs and plants to store over the season should she have need of them. It never hurt to be prepared. It never hurt. Fortunately luck was on her side, and she was left blissfully unaware of the distasteful local folk. Not like she'd been to town long enough at any time to hear the gruesome rumors of the brood - and more recently the  _ gang _ \- who holed up in the area. All she knew to keep an eye out for were the animals of the wild and the plants it consisted of. 

Wild mint, yarrow, Indian Gooseberry, wild carrots, Alaskan ginseng, creeping thyme- Charlotte immersed herself in the careful, precise process of tracking down any herb she knew what to do with, if found in a properly large amount. Were the patches too sparse she'd leave them to grow further, noting their location on her increasingly tangled and complex hand-drawn map. The knees of her trousers were caked thick with mud, green and red stains trailing up her forearms. Missy's saddlebags bulged due to the mass of greenery and plumage that protruded from within; the horse had a naughty streak and often had to be chided for taking a particularly interested sniff at some plant or another. Charlotte loved her for it. 

Looking once over her wagon full of herbs, food, new clothes, medicine and supplies stocked for the season, Charlotte felt a swell of pride in her ability to take care of herself. She wouldn't be getting sick this winter or dying of starvation, no, she would not. While a certain someone may have taught her the basics of hunting and trapping, she had long been familiar with many other valuable skills needed to make it by, out in the wilderness. She was no stranger to herbology. 

They'd been out here quite long, now. Really only a day or two but lord above, if it did not feel so much longer. Time seemed to stretch thinner and thinner every day of her life she spent alone. There was nothing inherently wrong with isolation; she'd grown accustomed to it. But it did...it could have a certain…. _ effect _ , on a person. Loneliness made you strange. 

She started unhitching Missy from the wagon, the horse slumping in relief. The night was long and flush with stars. Wildlife rustled far off in the thick underbrush, the trees swaying to and fro with hushed, quiet sighs. The sky was vast and black and Charlotte found it harder and harder to stay asleep, as of late. After some hours restless dozing she awoke, tossing and turning uneasily on her bedroll, Missy watching her every move with increasingly exhausted eyes. Charlotte sat up. 

Something was going on.

A disturbance up the hill. Up, high and far on the cliffside that hung over the wide valley. Not so far from Charlotte, per say, but far from the rest of the world; in the shallow silence of nighttime, the muddled and distant sounds of what seemed to be yelling, maybe even gunshots, echoed out to reach her. One hand flew out to clutch her shotgun. It was barely her business, but she figured…were she mistaken she'd simply come back down to her camp. Impulse tempted her, curiosity tugging insistently at her to stand, to collect herself and investigate the disturbance. She couldn't sleep in the first place. Leaving it lie wouldn't do her any good. Charlotte desperately tried to rationalize it as she stepped over the bedroll and patted Missy, urging her into awareness. "Come on, girl. I know it's late, come on." 

Spurring her horse into a quick trot, Charlotte picked her way carefully up and around the hill. She took the long way, careful not to send any rocks or debris sliding down the side of the thin dirt road to alert of her presence. The road was long. Camp seemed to fade farther and farther away, the thin plume of blackened smoke the only sign of the way back. The yelling and hoofbeats grew louder, fading in and out in short bursts before it all but disappeared. She froze in place, knees tight to Missy's broad sides as she listened. It felt like minutes- though could only have been seconds before the silence filled with the sound of a struggle. Charlotte urged Missy into the forest, noting quickly that daybreak was not so far off. Her curious confidence eroded with every step. She'd done foolish things, oh, the foolish things she had done still lingered on her mind and drove her nights into sleeplessness but probably never anything so foolish as climbing towards a mountain before the break of dawn following the sounds of a fight. Who would do that kind of thing? Of course only Charlotte Balfour, the fool on a fool's errand. 

She dared not break through the treeline. She heard it, then.  _ Chaos _ . Gunshots rang out rapid-fire, loud cracks and bangs echoing out across the valley. Light flickered here and there among the underbrush far above. She could see the dark outline of some caves, a tall, stacked hill hanging over the wilderness, framed by an endless expanse of thick trees interspersed with riders on horseback. Quickly, Charlotte dismounted, urged Missy further off into the woods and crouched in cover. Whoever these men were, they were clearly dangerous. Anyone with hands and mouth could be. Those with guns just weren't shy to hide it. 

Things quieted for a time. She could scarcely make out two silhouettes up on the ridge, grappling. Grunts and shouts echoed out, made unintelligible by the distance. Charlotte didn't know how long she spent there, hunched over and trembling, straining to hear anything which might guide her where to go. The men still on horseback circles around; she could make out the silhouettes and flashing glimpses of their lanterns just so. They were circling her way, planning to swing down and around. She huddled closer to the tree, and silently prayed that Hashem spare her. 

They did not come for her. 

Time passed and the violence faded away, the mild sounds of nature filling the air once again. Two silhouettes vanished from the mountain, making their way down. Where was the third?

The men on horses were somewhere off behind her now, circling inwards, closer. For now her only choice was to go towards the cliff and, were she strong enough, to climb. Curiosity gnawed at her just as her instinct for survival pushed her to go up towards the one place the men on horseback wouldn't expect a soul to go; upwards to the site of the crime, where the perpetrators had just fled.

The climb was rough. Stones slipped beneath her uneasy footing; she was a survivalist now, sure, but certainly not a mountain climber. She couldn't take Missy with her much further than the first ridge, where she lovingly insisted she stay put.

The final cliff stretched out before her, this the space where she believed to have seen the strangers walking. Sure and real as daylight, she saw him. The third silhouette. Frail, weak, the beaten man slumped to the ground and slid down to a more comfortable position, lying flat on his back with his gaze turned towards the sun. He was pale, washed out and sickly, with a layer of shining red coating him from the chest downwards; spatters of it stained his lips and the rough surface of his beard was caked with thick, slowly drying blood. Charlotte shuddered to think of what had been done to him. A rattling cough burst from him, interrupting the otherwise peaceful quiet of daylight. The sun rose high over the horizon. He took no notice of her loud, clumsy movements. He was elsewhere; he was giving up. She straightened, rushing from her hiding place in the underbrush to go to him. That cough was... _ alarming _ . It sounded all too familiar. With steady hands, she took her neckerchief and pulled it up to cover her mouth. It wouldn't do to catch his illness, no, it wouldn't do at all. 

She'd come up here expecting a confrontation, or perhaps a corpse. Not this. Even as well educated as she was in medicine, Charlotte was not particularly keen on nurturing strange, dirty men sprawled on mountain tops back to health. 

Still. She wasn't heartless. 

He went slack. His body was limp and fragile as she moved to stand over him, quickly considering her options. She might not be able to carry him- getting him onto her horse would prove rather difficult. There was no time to build any contraption on which to pull him by. Then again, he was thin and withered by illness, and she was strong from months of garden-tending and hunting. She reckoned she might even be taller.

Then came the shock. Cold and quick and gone as soon as it came, she knew all at once just who this man was; none other than Arthur Morgan, the man who had taught her to fend for herself in this bloody old wilderness. He had certainly seen better days. This might take the title as the  _ worst _ , were he lucky enough to live through it. What had he gone through, to come to such a state that she could barely even recognize him? Disease colored his pallid flesh, his face worn and roughened by more than just the weather. Dark bruises wound down his skin in patchy blotches. His left hand held a deep cut across the palm that bled quickly, presumably from grabbing onto a stone or something of the sort. A puddle of crimson surrounded him. This was more than just the aftermath of a fight- this was a broken man, whittled down to the barest functions of life. She whistled to her horse. This was someone who would die very quickly were she to dawdle. Her heart clenched to see her friend in such a state. 

She sprang into action. "Mr. Morgan," she urged, a gloved hand firmly patting his cheek and then, "Arthur!"

He couldn't answer. His head lolled to one side, eyes unfocused as he blinked, squinted up at her. He grunted. "Eloquent as ever, I see. Don't worry, Arthur, I'm not going to let you come to any harm. Just please, hold on."

She threw her overcoat onto the ground beside him before roughly rolling him onto it. Thank goodness she'd finally become accustomed to lifting heavy things. Arthur barely stirred. Then, with a strength she hadn't known she possessed, Charlotte pulled him along on the coat down the less steep edge of the hill, whistling to Missy to come around. 

The horse obliged. Missy trotted a bit closer, huffing loudly in distress at the scene before her; Charlotte let go of the jacket she'd used to drag him and instead moved to grab her horse's reins, easing her closer. She leaned down and tugged firmly at her right foreleg, pulling it back and in towards her hindleg. The movement tipped the horse at an angle. "Come on Missy, let's go girl." A soft whinny. The animal chose to comply, tilting and tilting 'til she fell comfortably to her side, calmly lying down. Charlotte took a rushed second to cheer her on before turning back to the dying man. 

"Your turn. Come on now, breathe deep. This isn't going to be very nice." He groaned once more. She wondered if he even knew what was happening. Then with one great, heaving tug, she pulled him over Missy's saddle, murmuring comforting words the entire time. Whether she was talking to the man or the horse wasn't quite clear. They both seemed to need it. 

"Where…." Arthur trailed off, falling into a fit of rough coughing as he weakly clung to Missy's side. Charlotte wanted to be sure he stayed conscious for as long as possible. She grasped Missy by the reins and slowly began leading the horse back down the hill, now more careful of the precarious path and all the scattered, slippery rocks along the way. Her chest swelled with relief once the plume of smoke from her camp came into sight again, along with the promise of her half-full wagon, perfect to transport him in. She'd been right to spend her day so far from home, restocking food and hunting for herbs and medicinal plants- they'd certainly come in handy now. This would be nothing if not near-impossible. 

Missy kept on her loyal, obedient way. Arthur barely moved a muscle. 

Even as a small child, Charlotte had always lived a very private life within herself. Few came in and few came out. How many years had it been since she'd spoken to her mother, or her father? Her dear late husband had been one of the few allowed in. Even her living space itself was more often than not reserved only for her. 

But Arthur was her friend. She trusted him; he had, in many ways, saved her life. She owed him the same courtesy. 

Reaching back to check on him, Charlotte took gentle hold of Arthur's uninjured hand and held it between one of her own. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is gonna be a long, weird, introspective ride of character studies, weird west wildness, werewolves, drawn-out love, repression, content for the touch-starved gays, lots of women getting the complex personalities and happy endings they deserved, history facts you didn't ask for and then also spitting on history, an overall happy end, all brought to you by me, who has little to no fic writing experience so please stick with me as i stumble roughly through the process.
> 
> and just as a note for anyone getting into it- this is an mlm centric fic between arthur and charles. im putting a lot of emphasis on their friendships with the women of the gang and the women's romantic and platonic relationships with eachother but that IS background content and won't be taking center stage this time. might publish some entirely tilly/karen and charlotte/sadie or sadie/abigail centric fics soon if i have the time :)


	2. keep your dreams light.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur woke up with a jolt. The thin sheets that covered him were tangled 'round his legs, halfway thrown to the ground; cold sweat chilled the back of his neck. The dream- or rather the memory- faded as his vision cleared. Panicked and afraid, breath coming to him in great rattling wheezes, he took a better look at his surroundings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in this chapter, i'm trying hard to use period-accurate language in reference to the lgbt topics brought up without employing the use of outdated (but still hurtful) slurs. aka, trying to talk about being gay and being trans without using direct terms in reference to it all. i hope it made sense, and if anything i wrote was disrespectful or you feel should be rewritten, please reach out. thanks!

Halfway to the Grizzlies and the roads only became rougher to ride; and ride they did, from dawn 'til dusk with only breaks to tend to Taima and Amma as needed, or for water or food. Amma was a good horse- slow and steady, strong as an ox and stubborn as one too. "That's my girl...not much longer," Arthur hummed against her broad neck, leaning down for a thorough pat. "We'll rest soon." 

He and Charles hadn't spoken much on the ride. The world was big; the mountains bigger. Colorful birds and rabbits fattened by the summer flitted through the trees and crossed the thin roads. The trees seemed to grow taller, higher, thicker and more dense as they neared their destination. The sky remained its familiar cool blue, dashed by tones of soft pink as night rose in the air. He looked forward to hunting in these conditions. 

Arthur felt calmer in the presence of his friend-- he hoped Charles felt the same. The horses breathed hard. The terrain turned rough; road-dust clouded his eyes. 

"Lets rest here." 

The horses obliged as Charles led them up the hill and into a clearing in the dense trees. Cut off from the road and safely encircled by the forest, on the embankment by a creek they dismounted, unpacked, laid out the bed rolls across the fire from one another.

Night draped itself over the camp. The fire was slow to warm. Arthur saw how Charles shuffled closer to it, the mildest tremble to his arm as the coolness set in. "Take this," he said, stood, threw him the spare blanket he kept on Amma during longer rides. He took it and wrapped it around himself, his arms resting loosely on his knees. "Thanks Arthur." 

He didn't respond, just grunted and sat across from him. He cooked the rabbits they'd shot on the road today- one of considerably better quality than the other thanks to Charles' skill with a bow. The flesh crackled, the flame spat. Arthur might not have been a particularly good cook, but he was certainly efficient. 

Hunting trips always took so long with them. They liked to take their time as they searched for just the right hunt, one really worth bringing back. Part of it was the getting away. 

There was a lot to get away from, these days.

Sitting cross the fire from him, amongst the pleasant crackling of sparks and distant whistling of birds overhead, Arthur felt calm. 

Calmer than usual, at least. The trouble these days could keep any man on edge. 

Time passed them by. Arthur eventually moved to pull out a small carving he'd been working on from his satchel- he wasn't keen on drawing in his journal when in close quarters with other people, but was too restless to just sit. Nothing to do with his hands. It chewed at him. He dug into the neck of it with his carving knife for some time, whittling away piece by careful, precise piece. 

Silence stretched out comfortably between them. Charles organized his pack, discarding some of the dead weight he carried for the ride tomorrow. Then he came to Arthur's side of the fire, peering appraisingly over his shoulder as he worked.

"Give that here," Charles spoke quietly, taking Arthur by surprise yet again. His finger near slipped, just short of another cut on the thumb. Charles crouched beside him. "If you don't mind me looking." 

"Sure." He scratched idly at the back of his neck, suddenly glad of the shelter his hat provided. It wasn't much of anything; a rough little half-carved imitation of a bear propped up on its hindlegs, face still just a featureless triangle bulging forth. He turned it this way and that, inspecting every inch for the finer details, finally holding it out at a distance for the grand image. Charles nodded slowly, ran a finger down the slope of one side. "Go a little easier on your cuts here. Small, quick movements. It'll make indents like fur." 

"Alright.." He swallowed, holding out his hand. "..Thank you, Charles. Ain't much, I know."

"It's fine work." He handed it back to him, taking Arthur's hand in his own and gently folding the small carving into his palm. One hand covered his for just a second too long. "You've improved." 

Arthur flinched away out of instinct- instantly missed the closeness and flashed a quick, apologetic smile. The air here was cold, crisp. He hoped any redness of his face would be attributed to the chill. Charles just looked at him. Arthur didn't know what to do with his hands. He rummaged around his mind for something to change the subject to.

"Ah, I've been meaning to say. Those Germans, back, ah, all those weeks ago." He paused, chewed his tobacco, spat. "You was...you was real kind to them. You're good to most anyone you haven't got a gun to." 

"They were innocent folks."

"Sure, I know. Decent folks. I acted like a pig-headed ass back there." 

"Yeah."

Arthur snorted. Didn't know why this was still on his mind, but couldn't seem to shake it off. He set aside his carving, kept his eyes trained on his boots, shuffling them against the red of the sand. If he was remembering right, the Torah said about thirty or more times that one should love strangers, and only once to love your neighbor. Considering his devout loyalty to the gang in comparison to his unwillingness to help those folk...well, he supposed that was a lesson he had yet to learn. "You're a good man, Charles." 

His companion didn't seem to know what to make of that. Offering no response, he just settled in to sit comfortably beside him, nodded. Elbows on knees, chin on his hands, still and quiet as he stared into the flames. He couldn't have been more than two feet away.

They watched the flames go lower, lower, 'til Arthur flicked a cigar into the midst of it, a stick in hand, nudging the kindling back to life. A thought gripped Arthur so fiercely that he couldn't help but voice it.

"Y'know, I thought you would have moved on by now."

A quick glance. "You want me to?"

"No. No, not at all." Arthur turned his head in avoidant pause. "Y're- y're a good man to have around. I just figure..you'd do alright in your own."

"I did that for a long time. I'm done with it. Stay for the same reasons you do." He pulled the blanket tighter around himself, staring at the ground. "Why?"

Arthur took to distraction, scratching at the mud caking one of his boots. "Guess I'm just wonderin' what exactly it is keepin' us all together. How to keep us going."

Only then did Charles glance up at him again. He didn't meet his gaze often but when he did- oh, when he did, it was a fierce one, one that seemed to claw its way right into the deep of you. "Where do you think this is all going to go? Where will it end?"

It was too big of a question for him. He pressed the heel of his boot hard into the groove of his thigh. "I don't know, Charles. I reckon we've got to trust and push through."

"Trust who?"

As if it were _ obvious _, "Dutch."

"And who else?"

August, September, October - everything gone wrong and nowhere left to run. A camp of hungry mouths to feed, mouths full of fear and complaints, the perpetual sense of fear bubbling just below every one of their wary dispositions. What worse could come of them now? He reckoned, quite a lot worse, that's what. Didn't figure he knew who to trust; certainly not himself. Gruffly he replied; "Each-other." 

No response. He didn't quite expect one, really. Feeling scrutinized beneath the other man's steady stare, Arthur shifted, nose wrinkled, heaved himself to his feet with a groan. "Think it's high time we got some rest. We'll move out early tommorow, yeah?" 

A nod. "You sleep well, Arthur."

How his voice was so gentle, he couldn't figure. Arthur found his own to be far too rough to answer in kind. He only nodded, face alight with warmth as he tucked his chin to his chest and propped his hat by his pillow, not far from the guns. He thought himself too clumsy with that sort of simple kindness. Pulling off his boots, carefully setting aside his hat and tucking himself into the bedroll, Arthur couldn't help but cast a look towards his friend. 

The man in question was staring right at him. 

The fire crackled. Goosebumps rose on his arms- _ from the cold _, he told himself, and stared back. He couldn't hold it long, felt too frightened by the implication of such an intimate moment even to try. He wondered if his companion was angry with him. Was that stare accusatory? Had Charles caught onto something Arthur hadn't even been conscious of? Finally he rolled to his other side, tucked his arms in against himself in some feeble imitation of a tight embrace and shut his eyes so tightly that light burst behind his eyelids. The cicadas sang their mind-numbing, droning hum 'til they too faded deep into the back of his consciousness. 

..

Arthur woke up with a jolt. The thin sheets that covered him were tangled 'round his legs, halfway thrown to the ground; cold sweat chilled the back of his neck. The dream- or rather the _ memory- _ faded as his vision cleared. Panicked and afraid, breath coming to him in great rattling wheezes, he took a better look at his surroundings. 

He was in Charlotte Balfour's cabin.

He was alive.

He was alone. 

> **°**

First came the pain. It rolled up him in a wave, from head to toe and back again. He felt feverish, hot and cold, repeatedly awoken from his dreary doze by a persistent stinging pain in his already constricted chest. It felt as though someone were gripping him by the upper body and squeezing 'til he had little but a rough, spittled rattle left to release. He didn't know how long he lay there on that bed, wrapped tightly in sheets and bare of his gunbelt or hat. Time lost all meaning or significance. There was only pain, and the desperate desire to simply fade away. To let go. It was like trying to sleep and finding no rest; trying to squeeze your eyes shut tight as they might go, praying for the release of unconsciousness, but never finding it. Arthur felt lost.

The cabin creaked and groaned as rain poured down around it in sheets. The windows were blurred from view; it might’ve been a flood, though he couldn’t’ve been sure. In fact most _ everything _was blurry- this wasn’t the first time he’d awoken in such a stupor, lost in his own body, but he’d certainly not expected to experience it once more. No, he’d thought himself done with the lot of that. Done with the suffering. 

No such luck. 

He tried to think back on how he'd gotten here. How long was the ride? Had he been aware for any of it? Moments came to mind- a fist to the face. The smell of a campfire, the stench and deep sting of a wound being cauterized. Firm, slender hands dragging him onto a horses back. The night, discolored by the blur of illness. Confusion. Anger. Exhaustion. Micah's kicks to the gut, and all the relentless hits he'd taken.

Dutch, leaving him for dead. Not even for the first time. 

And Charlotte- her, of course. Though he was apprehensive of the word itself, _ friend _, she was one, and a trusted one at that. One who had evidently come to save him when he least deserved it. Did he ever deserve it?

His eyes stung. The house felt too empty, panic and paranoia gnawing through the haze of his exhaustion. Arthur tried to speak to call out to her or to anyone- gripped tightly at the sheets as painful coughs wracked his body. Punishment for even trying. It felt like he was drowning in his own lungs, every inhale a desperate begging to breathe. Where was Charlotte? Was he alone here? Distress gripped him. Gruff and muffled, "Ma'am?"

Each half gulp of oxygen felt like sandpaper in his throat, the air itself cloying, too thick to draw inwards, all petrichor and moisture. Fear curdled in his mind. His thoughts turned sour and angry. What strange things terror could do to a person. 

A distant door slammed. A flurry of noise, a curse, a woman's voice- Arthur gurgled and slurred as he tried to force himself to sit upright, only to collapse flat onto his back yet again, chest sore, spasming in time with each rattling wheeze.

"Arthur?" 

The door was flung open, revealing a rain-drenched, trouser-clad, wide-eyed Charlotte. She rushed in before freezing in place, taking two deliberate steps back, and quickly peeling off her completely soaked overcoat and throwing it indiscriminately onto the ground somewhere. He was too bleary to pay much attention but it seemed she'd dunked her hands into a bucket propped near the door, for whatever reason. The sight of her near frightened him, what with the bandana tightly wound over her mouth and nose and all, but it wasn't hard to recognize the clear sound of her voice. "Mr. Morgan, you're awake. Stay still, please, don't try to sit just yet- unless of course you're to be sick, which case just lean much as you can. There's, ah, a bucket thataways, on your right." 

He heeded her words and stayed flat on his back, though he surely hadn't the strength to look and check anyways. Mrs Balfour was on him in a minute, firm hands checking at the pulse on his neck and wrist and to press at his forehead. Checking his temperature, he reckoned, lacking the capacity to question her on any of it. The prone man lay still and stifled his pain as best he could. 

"I'm sorry for not being here when you woke up, I am, I-"

"No.. s'fi...s'fine.."

"What's hurting you, Arthur? How can I help?" 

Arthur didn't know. He couldn't identify what pain was most notable, could scarcely tell limb from limb in the numb, achy blur that was his body. He felt a foot above himself. Stuck hovering, short of breath, absent and sore. He tried to clear his throat, the weak attempt reducing him to a cough that was thick with blood as it was loud. 

"That cough. I might be able to help with that. Indian Gooseberry juice mixed with honey, it- it might just do the trick." 

He didn't know what to do. Arthur felt useless. Limp. Deadweight. He resorted to nodding. 

"I'll be right back. Now, you don't go anywhere, you hear me?" 

Arthur snorted. Waved a hand. Sunk deeper into the hard mattress. 

> ** _° _ **

The days dragged on; Arthur barely spoke. Charlotte was glad of her substantial stocks of food- nothing particularly good, all varying levels of tasteless to mildly salty- but food was food. Arthur faded in and out of consciousness as the hours passed, never seeming to be completely coherent. He spoke of strange things in his dreams as he tossed and turned. She found herself lacking just as much sleep as he, lying wide-eyed until daylight listening for the sounds of a cough or the call of her name, feeble with embarrassment. 

Some days were better than others, her cures of garlic and Indian gooseberry, mint tea, ginseng, walnuts, garlic or black pepper all varying in their effectiveness. For a long time, he could speak only little and then very hoarsely. He waited for his body to have some mercy on him, and waited, and waited. Charlotte was no stranger to illness or to caring for those afflicted by it. She knew it well, better than she should have liked to in fact. The fever was harder to care for- he would rock and sway in place or thrash in his bed, driven to thick bloody coughs by the intensity of his condition, gripping on to consciousness only enough to groan and to beg that she let him die. Sometimes she considered it. 

But she couldn't. She had already failed her husband, her best friend; could she bear to lose another? Sleep already evaded her most nights, even when there wasn't a sick man moaning and crying in the room just over. He usually didn't remember that part when he woke up. Or at least she thought he didn't, though she wouldn't have put it past him to hide it out of embarrassment. Arthur possessed a great capacity for shame. 

Some days, he awoke asking to sit on the porch in the sun, one of the only requests of his which she encouraged. The two of them would stumble out onto the porch, the small, dark-haired woman struggling to heave him into the wooden armchair out front. He would sit there for hours most days, staring at nothing, letting the sun shine on his face. On a Wednesday where he wasn't feeling near death's door, he asked humbly if he might bother her for a couple of sheets of paper. She happily obliged- Charlotte was an introverted woman for the most part, and believed him to be much the same. Having the space to put one's thoughts, unbothered and private, was important perhaps not for physical healing but for the mental part of things. She watched him then with the journal she gave. She was glad when he finally began to draw. He drew and drew until his body became too weak to hold him up. He would slump against the wall, head tilted to the fading sunlight, feebly asking her with that sad look in his eyes if she would come help him back inside. Eventually he didn't have to ask anymore. 

He seemed to want to compensate for the trouble he had caused her. Arthur would often ask her questions about her own life, few too personal, asking if there were things he might be able to help her with around the farm once he was no longer, as he put it, sick as a dog and hotter than the devil in church. Arthur would often offer his favorite tips and tricks. Usually ways to hitch a horse right or to fix issues in the house. He had little advice to give on the matters of cooking or cleaning, but the man could certainly detail all the necessary parts to assemble a table or to pitch a tent. She grew well accustomed to his company. Charlotte did not think herself to be the affectionate type, or perhaps not affectionate to the woes of men she scarcely knew, but Arthur had somehow come to hold an important place in her heart. Even when he was hunched over a bucket and she was forced to hold back his long swathes of hair, Charlotte didn't mind him. She joked that she might cut it in his sleep, only to laugh at his distressed yowl of protest.

Three weeks he lived with her, sometimes up all night thrashing and crying, unable to breathe, choking down the cups of green, mint, and Indian gooseberry teas, health cure and ginseng that she forced upon him which he said, no offense meant, tasted like slop in a cup. What flattering manners he possessed. More than once, she wondered if he might die before daybreak. Late at night when he lie breathing so barely that she could tell only when her hand was held close enough to his mouth to feel it, she wondered. Dead bodies were heavier than live ones, and Charlotte remembered how hard it had been to drag Cal out to the yard to bury him. How hard it had been to bring Arthur here. Where would she put him? Would she dig a hole for him too, next to the grave of her husband? Just a row of good, dead, sick men who she could not fix. Her heart clenched.

She tried to think of better things. Once they had come to that level of trust, she sat by him as he lay in his bed one evening after dinner and asked about his journal. He said he had written very little, and that there was nothing of interest inside. Charlotte quipped that it was high time he show her something interesting, before she got bored enough to go back to the forest to hunt, or to find a more amusing dying man to bother. 

So they got to talking.

"And this, who's this handsome lady here? A spark of yours?" Charlotte asked, gesturing to the rough sketch he'd done of Sadie, her name written in cursive beside it. She looked tough, with a round nose and bright eyes, a jaw set like steel and brows steeper and more threatening than the Grizzlies themselves. There was a great attention to detail in the work. She wondered how much of her countenance could be attributed to his stylization and how much spoke truth. Sadie was a very handsome woman. 

Arthur shifted his weight to his right side, laughing with just the barest note of discomfort in his tone. "Oh, no…" he spoke, drifted off. Charlotte only stared. He cleared his throat and cast a quick glance to the window and then back at her, then the sketch. "No. I reckon...she and I have a great many things in common, but a romantic inclination for the likes of one other ain't among 'em." 

Charlotte paused. His words carried much more weight than they may have to any other who had not had such conversations before. Her fingers brushed over the charcoal along Sadie's brow, trailing to her neck, where they stopped. Her tone was careful. "I have had such.. such...inclinations, myself." 

"Oh."

She continued to flip through the pages of sketches, noting the beauty and detail which went into each work. What strange secrets this Mr Morgan did harbor. Having heard no protest to the direction of this conversation, she quietly continued, figuring there was little a sick man could or would be willing to do were she mistaken in their shared preferences. "When did you first come to understand this about yourself, if I might be so bold as to ask?" 

He stared at the floor for a moment. "I think I… had to figure it out, oh, a couple of times. First when I was a boy and hadn't any idea what was'n what weren't the norm- learned the hard way that there's some questions you can't ask just anybody." Cleared his throat. "Later on I got around to readin'. Dutch put me onto it, though I didn't much like the material. Acted dumb just to avoid having to admit it. Hosea saw right through me, got me a bunch of books. Richard Henry Dana, Evelyn Miller, Emily Dickinson even-- a, uh, _ Something _ Wheatley, some Walt Whitman, among others- liked them all just fine, but found some of Whitman's work particularly...memorable. Was'bout seventeen then. Seventeen, none too decent, much too stupid." 

"I can't imagine you ever having been stupid, Arthur Morgan. Indecent, yes. You just admitted to me you like poetry, the likes of Emily Dickinson and Walt Whitman no less- now what kind of hick fool do you know that indulges in such things?" 

"Fair point," He laughed, cackled almost. A dark flush colored his cheeks and he turned his face away in what she could only identify as embarrassment. "You and I ain't the only ones I know of. Among outlaws, it's almost common practice. Most of the girls. Few of the fellers. We ain't alone out here."

Arthur had a nostalgic kind of smile on his face- though still seemed on edge, as if frightened of what his words might draw from her, but she knew him to be a curious man. He coughed again before asking quietly; "You was married to a man a long time, weren't you, ma'am?" 

"Charlotte," she corrected, and he nodded. His question lacked any accusatory tone. She tried to tame her nerves. Charlotte glanced up at the framed photo of herself and Cal, still displayed on the wall. "Yes. But I love women nonetheless." 

Arthur smiled. "As I do handsome fellers." 

They laughed together for a moment, happily sharing the newfound understanding between them. 

He continued. "Your husband, Cal, did he know?"

"He was the same as you." She blinked, then, surprised for the first time in years to have said it aloud. Her quick glance found only a serious nod from Arthur, though, entirely unbothered. Charlotte continued. "He'd heard things could be better in the west. Was caught, once, in a… city establishment where…well, his reputation came into question, and thought it might be better to come out to the West, where- where bachelor's marriages and the like are not altogether uncommon, and where we could have a fresh start on our reputations. You understand, I'm sure. Nonetheless. We were happy. Very happy. He was my best friend."

Arthur gave her a long, serious look. "I think I might be more similar to both you and Cal than I might seem." He cleared his throat. "I, uh- I've known I was a man since I was pretty young myself. Realized it just around before I was picked up by my..my mentors." 

She couldn't think of what to say but to nod, giving him a long, seriously meeting his gaze. She felt even safer with him now than she had before.

"Mmhm." He cleared his throat once more, voice still rough with illness. She absently tucked the bandana more tightly around her face, then moved on to keep flicking slowly through the pages of his journal, taking time to admire some longer than others as she went. "I had the same idea, once. More like twice, though the first, Mary, was a- some foolish try to prove myself, thinkin' maybe if I could just live as was expected'a me I might be a better man than I know I am. I made a fool of myself and caused us both more pain than needed. I broke her heart."

"And the second?"

Arthur swiped at his face with his un-bandaged hand, sighing. "Eliza. This waitress I... I didn't love her, but I cared'bout her. We had a boy we took care of together, our son Isaac, though it was mostly her doin' the hard work. Again a foolish test at livin' like somethin' I ain't, thought maybe if I tried to live a life more expected of me it might make life easier, or feel more right. In the end I just wanted to see the best for her. Got her and our son killed by neglect. Thought to myself often that I'd be better than my father were I given the circumstances t'prove it, but I might've done worse. I might've."

Charlotte had no words to coddle the regrets of a failed father. Those matters were his and his alone to work through. She knew her own too well, and knew all about the sore spot of an empty seat at the table could leave you with all your life. Whoever his son and wife had been, she would think of them during her prayer. 

Still, he was her friend and had clearly worked hard to redeem himself elsewhere. She tried for empathy. "I'm sorry that happened to them." 

He hummed. "Did you ever plan to have children?" 

"No. I never wanted to be a mother, not really. I can scarcely fend for myself out here- imagine if I had more mouths to feed." She caught the flicker of guilt in his expression. 

"What brought you out here with him, then?"

Charlotte stared. They'd come upon this shared kinship and on account of his kindness, she couldn't fathom that he might yet change his opinion of her for something more sour, but the possibility was always unnerving. She wound her hands together in her lap. "Cal and I- well, when we were young- he had feelings for me. I didn't feel the same, and so we became friends instead. It wasn't until a dozen or so years ago that I was honest with myself on being a woman." 

Arthur nodded slowly. 

She swallowed. "He was very kind, as I'd been kind to him. Helped me with things, called me by my real name, this one I chose for myself. He understood better than most, and saw me all at once for what I always had been. So- so though I wasn't inclined towards men myself once I'd come to that realization, I still felt safe by him, and him by me, and so we married to help each other. A regular couple of 'city folk' up in the mountains. We certainly looked the part to strangers, should it have ever come into question. Though I feel my image of being a good housewife is only a very thin veneer!" 

"I think you've been doin' a swell job. You're a quick learner, Charlotte- and good at carin' for others. Among other things." Arthur smiled reassuringly. No judgement in his eyes, only warmth.

"Thank you." 

"I mean no offense, but I didn't know you knew medicine, n'all."

Charlotte laughed. "Mr _ Morgan _! I may not have known my way around a gun, but that's no implication of my other skills." 

He held up his hands in self defense, surrendering to her infectious laugh despite the cough that interrupted it. "Course not! S'pose I'm just curious where you learned all this." 

"Speaking of…." She mumbled, and reached out for his bandaged left hand, giving it a thorough once over. "We should change this soon." 

"Alright."

Charlotte hummed as she stood, sliding open the medical case she kept stored beneath his bed. "I went to college. Medical college. My parents were more passionate for it than I was- I much prefer to write." 

"Huh. An educated woman, then." 

"Very." She paused, blinked. "I have the qualifications of a Doctor."

Arthur looked at her with raised brows. "S'pose I should've been callin' you Doctor Balfour all this time, then?"

"No, no, not at- not at all. I've no practice, no title, no business. It's not acknowledged around these parts. Regardless, I'm a better writer than I am a doctor. I don't even have patients," Charlotte glanced quickly at him. "With the exception of one, I suppose. Besides. We're familiar with one another's- well, I won't say _ christian _ names. We can leave off the formalities." 

Arthur snorted, rolling his head back onto the pillow. "Mmhm. Why haven't you started nothin'? As y'can see there's no shortage of sickly fools around these parts." 

"I _ can _ see that." Deciding it was a good enough time as any to apply the bandages, she gestured that he give her his healing hand, slowly starting to unwind the stained gauze. He hissed as she worked. Coughed. A deep scowl settled into his features, still sallow and bruised, discolored by illness. He still wasn't eating much. He had been a rather burly man the first time she'd seen him- there was a clear difference to his stature. A certain frailty which did not suit his brutish disposition. "I don't know, Arthur. Why haven't you taken up a career in banking? You certainly know your way around them." 

The jab dug a bit deep, though he still had the humor in him to laugh, talking to distract from the pain in his palm as she washed it. Served him right, she thought, a tad bitter still over the matter of her medical degree. "You insult me, Charlotte, implyin' I'd get my hands dirty like that. Only thing worse'n a bank's a hornets nest, though I-" He coughed, "I reckon I'd be gladder among the hornets." 

With a grin firm on her face, Charlotte began wrapping his palm firmly with the fresh bandages. It wouldn't do to survive tuberculosis only to lose one's life to an infection. "I suppose we'll both just have to find other ways of keeping busy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you lay your hand on my forehead?  
At the crack of dawn, I am ashamed.  
(Johnathan; Christine & the Queens + Perfume Genius.)


	3. death is silence.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Up on that mountain, far from the rest of the world, Charles thought on missed chances, the unpredictability of life, and what it meant to be alone.

The sick and dying had been attended to, as best they could be. Charles and some of the other healthy, strong people rode out and found another place for the tribe to settle; Charles did his best to cover their tracks, ensuring that they might evade the army for as long as possible. He stayed for the burial of Eagle Flies, helped as he could- though he knew there was little what he could do to ease the pain of such a loss. He felt it himself, though he'd only known the young man a short time. They might have had their differences, but Charles didn't believe in the concepts of fate, revenge, or _ 'getting what's coming to you' _; only in people, and the pain they suffered or inflicted and how they chose to turn that pain into something better. He hoped that Eagle Flies' people could find something better, here. 

Three weeks passed and he heard nothing from the gang. 

Much more frighteningly, he heard nothing from Arthur. 

Those long weeks were the longest he had gone without contact to them since before he joined at all. Not that they were truly the same people he had once known, at least not the majority of them. 

He thought more than once that he might simply stay. Stay there among those whoh had helped towards a better future, and who had welcomed his help and shared their warmth with him in return. It would not have been a bad life. But was it _ his _? Most days, Charles was under the impression that he did not belong anywhere at all, and any attempt to insert himself somewhere was an unwelcome intrusion. Even with the Van der Linde gang he had, more often than felt entirely fair considering how good some were to him, still felt like a foreigner, unwelcome, lingering on the outskirts of their lives. But the feeling could've been attributed to many things, anything from the mere presence of Bill or Micah, or perhaps to Charles' own more deep seated issues and lifelong reliance on isolation. He couldn't know for sure. He wasn't sure he could bear the answer. All in all to Charles, staying any place he hadn't built from the ground up himself, or worked consistently over many months to contribute to felt like an imposition. 

So he left. Packed his bags and left his new friends with solemn promises of contact and an oath to answer should they ever call, firm embraces and sad looks passed between them. Rains Fall himself embraced Charles, an act which left him feeling humbled and small. He hadn't felt such honest respect for a mentor and felt the sentiment in return in... well, he couldn't remember how long. He would miss him.

° 

Two days later Charles was standing over Susan Grimshaw's burnt corpse. 

He couldn't just turn his back, never to return. Charles was the type of man who liked to finish what he started. He'd heard the stories from a news article a friend passed along- part of the reason he'd left. Though some part of him had known this might be what he found, an even smaller part had begged it not be true- that part that had hungered so very insistently for anything even vaguely resembling _ family _, kinship, anything beyond the stifling and constant pressure of a life in isolation. He looked solemnly down at Susan's almost unrecognizable body. What a price to pay for wanting to belong to something.

They hadn't been very close, Mrs. Grimshaw and him. He had some understanding for her, and had at times held peaceful conversations towards the end of a long day which he now looked fondly back on. She had come to his defence and he to hers more often than he had put much thought into before this moment. So he steeled himself for the tough work ahead and sought out a good, safe place to lay her to rest that he'd ridden by before, not far east from Elysian Pool. Everyone deserved to rest somewhere beautiful, peaceful, and especially away from where they had been killed. It wouldn't feel right to leave her there in that dark place. 

To be entirely truthful, he had been much closer with the other women in the gang than with Susan. He and Sadie had spent many nights laughing quietly to themselves over a bottle, or chatting over the backs of their horses as they tended to them. He and Tilly, smart and friendly as she was had spent hours upon hours of time taking care of- well, really, _ playing _with the chickens, and had stayed up well past any reasonable hour in long conversation while he helped her with her hair or, on the rare occasion, she with his. Mary-Beth was a kind girl as well. Many an afternoon he'd stood nodding along as she detailed the plots and character motivations of her short stories to him. Even Charles and Karen had been good friends, though not so close as Arthur was with her; he knew those two could veer into raucous banter on the flick of a switch. She'd confided in Charles of her feelings for Tilly, however, which was something he still felt honored to have been trusted with. He wondered if he was the only one who knew. He wondered why she chose him.

He smiled fondly as he thought on all the times they'd played checkers together, both never admitting to that Karen mostly only wanted practice to play it later with Tilly, and himself the same with Arthur. They had their fair share of good conversations that way. 

The shovel he'd procured from the scattered remains of the camp supplies was rusted as it was old, with a short handle that only allowed for work to be done with it on ones hands and knees. Charles didn't mind, really, or at least not in the sense that he might abandon Susan on account of the discomfort. He stayed there an entire day, the majority of his time having been taken with rifling through the camp rubble for any signs of what might have happened and checking the perimeter for any signs of lingering danger or reason to wait and come back another time. He'd long since rebuilt a rough image of the final nights occurrences in his mind's eye; could really picture it all panning out. It wasn't a pleasant picture. 

The grave got deeper. His hands had acquired new scratches. His knees grew sore, wrists cracking after the hours of effort, his hair slick with sweat from the hot sun beating down as he dug. Dug, dug, and dug until roughly six feet had been reached and he knew he'd almost gotten the physically hard part over and done with. He gently carried her corpse from its place and laid her with so much care as he could fathom down in the deep, deep grave; the stench and the sight invaded his every sense, taking all his will to push through. Miss Grimshaw hadn't been perfect- he'd often had a bone or two to pick with her over her treatment of the girls, something he might never forgive her for. Still.

She deserved more dignity than this. A real funeral. He didn't know a thing about holding a funeral for a person, really; knew something or other about how to honor one, at least. 

So he stood over her grave hours later, drenched and weighed by exhaustion and feeling wrung out like a dish towel, shovel in one hand and the roughly carved wooden crucifix he knew she would've liked to be buried under clutched tightly in the other. He knelt over the tightly packed earth, digging the crucifix he'd engraved her name into over the head of the grave and sat there for some time, lost in thought. "Thank you, Susan Grimshaw. For all you did for us." 

He lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the sun, brown fingers gone pink as the sunlight streamed right to the bone. The horizon was reddening in announcement of evening.

Molly's grave was next.

She'd been buried long since, with little to do to make her rest any more dignified. Charles hadn't risked a visit for the sake of his security in camp; it wouldn't have gone over well, surely, to pay respects to the grave of someone most the others would have spat on. One point of dispute between him and Grimshaw, that was, though he hadn't bothered to speak of it. Wasn't worth it. 

The trek wasn't long. It didn't do to bury people close to where you lived, in concern of animals, and haunts. He could recall the near exact spot despite the fact it'd been left unmarked, recognizable only by the particularly limp and dry tree she'd been dumped near. The mound had mostly grown over, grass amassing above her. It was a shame, really- he found he held little blame for her. Didn't know why. She just didn't seem so unjust in her actions, except of course if it was true that she knowingly endangered Jack, and the women. He hadn't been there; what right did he have to make assumptions? Besides, Charles typically didn't believe in the idea of _ getting what's coming to you _ . So he stood there, and he lay a fistful of Scarlet Avens he'd found nearby on her grave, and carved her name into the bulk of the tree. _ Molly O'shea, 1899, a good woman _. And that was it. That was all there needed be. 

The ride back to the remnants of camp was quiet as it was stifling. 

He couldn't stay too close for the night. He was already taking a risk, being alone and so close to the site. Anyone from the Murfree brood to the Pinkertons could come sniffing around. So he sidled up into the hills with Taima and his packs of meagre supplies in tow, intending to rest somewhere safe as possible. 

Night came faster than he had the attention to anticipate. His bedroll smelled like horse. The fire was just a bit too small to offer any real comfort. 

Charles felt very alone. 

°

The sun had not eased in her severity since yesterday, having no mercy on the poor man toiling over the graves of his friends. Never did. He huffed as he hefted himself up the mountainside, to where the cliff hung out over the edge of the world. Arthur had been here, that much was obvious. Despite how time had quickly worn down the tracks, the marks of a real fight were too obvious to overlook. Blood spattered intermittently over the rocks, scraps of Arthur's flannel- which he could distinctly discern based on the ever-so-clear memory of him taking it off once not far from him when the day got hot. Boot prints. Hooves. Micah's worn hat, which he sent flying over the edge of the cliff by his heel. Sincere anger began to boil just under the surface as he pieced the scene together. Micah, leaving Arthur for dead. Dutch too, most probably.

He couldn't find Arthur.

Whether that was a relief or struck heartbreak in him, he couldn't quite tell just yet, everything getting to be just a little too much for him. Based on the wide circle of dried blood and the rough signs of a body being dragged from it, he could only assume the worst. 

He could remember Arthur in those final days of his, when last they spoke and fought shoulder to shoulder. He'd seemed convinced of his own deterioration, a unique sense of determined hopelessness having settled into him. Hopeless, meaning how short a time he felt he still had on this earth- determined in that he meant to make something good of it. He looked at the scratches and the dirt marks still on his hands from Susan's burial and he wondered what did come of all of it. Was any of it worth it? Was there any meaning to be found here, any purpose? 

That constant guiding arrow within him that had always directed him forwards in his life now felt skewed. For a long time his only intention had been to _ survive _. To do whatever may be necessary to make a living of it, and retain enough humanity not to bring suffering along in his wake as he did so. 

Charles settled by the edge of the circle of fading, flaky blood, turned dark by the stare of the sun. He couldn't bring himself to touch it, nor to move from the spot. He tucked his hands in his lap, hands interwoven, gaze drawn up and out to the rising sun.

Was this the last thing Arthur saw?

He brought a hand to cover his mouth, swiped upwards over his brow in a movement of frustration, of pent up exhaustion. It was too overwhelming, too much to sit here in the quiet and the sunlight and to see a mans final moment in everything but the flesh.

Death wasn't easy, for the dying nor those who lived to be haunted by it. 

So he settled to work, to fill the quiet. Left the mountain and the thick blanket of grief draped over it, those cursed caves behind as he made to find somewhere more beautiful to honor his friend. The Pinkertons must have taken his corpse; to show and to brag like he was a legendary hunt and not a man, or to dispose of in whatever dishonorable way they found most satisfying. 

He tried not to think on it. 

…

The cliffs edge was beautiful. He thought on what Arthur had said to Lenny and Hosea, that one cool day on the Overlook. 

_ Face me to the West so I can see the setting sun, and remember all the good times we had _. 

Arthur probably hadn't known he'd heard, or been listening at all. Probably didn't bother to know. Still. Charles kept those kinds of things in mind, tried to commit to memory the facts he learned about those around him. It was a tool usable only by those gifted with the attention span of a solitary person. He wondered sometimes how the rest of the gang had perceived him; he'd been on good terms with most all the women, and had seen Lenny as family. He'd rather turned to Hosea than Dutch when seeking the attention of a mentor. Even Javier, though his disposition towards him had grown cold towards the end had once been a dear friend to him. 

The more he thought on it, the more he was forced to acknowledge the unspoken words that had hung in the air between he and Arthur for the extent of them knowing one another. He felt the sore pang of an opportunity missed, of a realization come too late. He thought on that first day they’d met. The spark that had shot up his arm like an electric current when they first shook hands. The way Arthur had held his gaze, firm and honest and so much less closed off than the rest of him. Charles had looked at him and seen some reflection of himself, there- behind the innumerable layers of cold calculation and all the seemingly immovable barriers he’d erected between himself and the rest of the world, he could see another man weighed down by regret, clinging to the hope for something better. A lost man seeking approval. Unflinchingly loyal, desperately holding on to the firm dogmatic belief that his actions and impact were ultimately for good cause. They’d not always seen eye to eye, but Charles had felt that mutual respect that tied them to one another, less tenuous than that which he held with the other men. 

Anyone else might've thought it silly to give a grave to a dead man whose body could not be found. There'd only be the headstone he'd carved and the flowers he'd planted, with no body beneath to nourish them. But it didn’t feel right to just leave, knowing someone so- knowing that _ Arthur _had died here, with no memorial, nothing left to honor his passing. 

Arthur wouldn't have thought it silly. He might have _ said _ it was, but he'd have toiled over it nonetheless. Were the roles reversed it would undoubtedly be Arthur standing here, pushing seeds from his pack into the earth and ever so carefully carving him a headstone by which to be remembered. It would've been him, with tears caught tight behind his eyes, face hot with the pressure of resisting them as the dirt and the grime clung to his arms and his knees ached from the pain of kneeling so long. Charles felt older than he was, and read the text on the headstone aloud to himself. 

_ 'Whoever rescues a single life earns as much merit as though he had rescued the entire world.' _

He hoped it was what he would have wanted. Had heard him quote it in its entirety once, and been curious as to what it meant. Arthur had gladly shared, but hadn't been convinced of its applicability to himself. 

Charles thought on Arthur and his duality, and all the ways he seemed to reshape himself to suit whomsoever he was taking orders from at that moment. Mostly, two ways of being. The first, the easier one; a brute. A faceless bulk of flesh and anger, come storming to you to take back what’s his, or what belongs to whoever told him to go get it. And then- the man in the corner, pulling into himself, trying to mold his mass into something small, out of shame or out of shyness or the desire to be something he thinks he’s not. He didn’t quite _ blame _him for being dead. He didn’t blame him for much. Maybe he could blame him for the two little cuts on his hands he’d earned in carving him a headstone. Maybe he could blame him for the loneliness that now settled coolly into him. 

That wasn't fair. Still. The cold realization that, yet again, there was no one left for him to turn to washed over him painfully. He'd been on his own for so long. He'd taken what scraps of familial joy the gang could muster and had clutched it like a lifeline, like some compensation for a life lived alone. He figured it was a good thing that he always had room left in him for just a little more grief. 

Kneeling there on the cliffside, with the cool air rushing over him in waves and the soft rustle of the underbrush around him, Charles began to cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And him so strong, and yet so quick he died,  
And after year on year  
When we had always trailed it side by side,  
He went—and left me here!  
We loved each other in the way men do  
And never spoke about it, Al and me,  
But we both knowed, and knowin' it so true  
Was more than any woman’s kiss could be.  
What is there out beyond the last divide?  
Seems like that country must be cold and dim.  
He’d miss this sunny range he used to ride,  
And he’d miss me, the same as I do him.  
...  
The range is empty and the trails are blind,  
And I don’t seem but half myself today.  
I wait to hear him ridin' up behind  
And feel his knee rub mine the good old way.  
(The Lost Pardner, Badger Clark, 1919)


	4. you want something new.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I remember you mentioned him- Charles. Not as much as the others, though. Were you close?” 
> 
> “Would’ve liked to have been,” Arthur replied, quietly taking the journal back into his own lap. He sighed. “Yeah. We was close. Closer than I was with the other fellas, at least, besides perhaps for my family.”

> _**Several months later…** _

"Nah, I don't think that's quite right."

"What do you mean, '_not right _'?"

"I mean, someone who just got goddamn _ shot _ wouldn't be so keen to discuss those matters 'til they could at least see straight."

She huffed. He wasn't wrong. "This is the _ final scene _."

Charlotte gave him a hard look, prompting him for further input. It wasn't like she had an abundance of people to ask for advice in these parts. Arthur sighed, setting his charcoal down the middle of his journal.

He was better now. Rough, never just as he was before, but better- he’d even developed a healthy pudge. His hair had grown to shoulder length, curly, a healthy flush to his face- he’d turned down all her offers to cut it, claiming that every slight difference in his appearance helped to hide from the law. They’d discussed those things long ago, her having come well to terms with the fact she was essentially harboring a criminal in her home. She’d come to the conclusion that she really didn’t care.

Over the winter, Charlotte finished the first draft of her first book. They were laughing, easygoing, sitting on the porch. She was so close to being done. "It's real good, Charlotte, awful good especially all up to this part, n'I know it's meant to be the closin' scene n'all but perhaps you oughta...I dunno, have a lil' _time_ pass 'fore they get to talkin' and all. Just a bit of time t'heal up." 

"That's a fair point. It took you nearly two weeks to say more than two coherent words to me."

He laughed, turning back to his sketches. "Sure did."

She peeked over at his work, admiring his progress. It always astounded her, the pace and consistency with which artists improved even when not meaning to, even far and long into life. "I just feel like this isn't the right end for her. The readers will need some more closure..but I don't know how."

Arthur glanced up at her while he drew. Smiled. "They're your characters. Shouldn't you know these things already?"

His teasing tone made her bristle, a bit flustered; she furiously scribbled down some notes. "Well- yes, they absolutely are, but sometimes there's things you can't do all on your own." 

"Like write your own book."

"Oh, shut up Arthur!" 

"I'm just kiddin', just kiddin'." 

Winter had come and gone, harsh and cold and unkind to Arthur's lungs as it was to her psyche; they'd barely scraped through. But they had, in the end, both out the other end better for it and closer in kinship than they'd ever anticipated. He could stand now without help, could stand and walk and even run, as they'd proven by his mad chase after the rats that'd chosen to infest her barn early January. Things were looking up. His concerning cough had tapered down to a rare thing, frequent not so violent, not so bloody. These days she insisted he sat on the porch in the sun, with the warm clean air which she hoped brought his lungs some relief. It seemed to have worked. Her relief was immense- more often than she'd have liked to admit, Charlotte had worried she might lose him or grown fearful for her own health. 

Charlotte looked over at his sketch. He'd grown accustomed to her seeing his work, no longer suffering from the shyness which once kept him from sharing. “What are you drawing now, Arthur?”

He didn’t answer at first, large hands still filling in the hair of the person he drew. He sucked on his teeth. Uneasy- she could tell. Then he stopped all at once, a little too fast, as though if he got it from his line of sight quickly as possible he might not be so nervous. “Ain’t my best work.” 

A man, leaning against a tree. A plume of smoke trailed up from the distant forest behind him. A horse grazed nearby. His hair was dark and long, a curtain around his face which cast harsh shadows over his broad, handsome nose; his face was round but strong, eyes turned downwards to the half-formed wooden stake he held in his hand, knife posed to carve. A great deal of effort had been put into this sketch. Remarkable, really, seeing as how Arthur had mostly only drawn quick studies as of late- or at least that was all he’d allowed her to see over his shoulder. She’d even seen herself in that book, once or twice. Rushed, charcoal staining the sides of his palms, trying to catch the world in a jar, in the mass of black lines and shadows. She was gentle as she took the book in hand, not daring flip to any other page for fear of interrupting what little privacy he still possessed in her company. Her voice was soft when she finally spoke. “Is this someone you knew?” 

“Yes’m. Charles Smith.” She glanced up to him, waiting for him to elaborate. He swallowed audibly. “He was...he was my friend. Miss him.” 

She looks at the sketch in all its patient, detailed attention. She’s seen this face before in glimpses of his art, brief and passing, scrawled on the edges of newspapers or in the margins of his journal as he wrote; crossed out or set gracefully into the center of a page. This man, pages of studies of him, all from memory and as far as she could tell, nearly flawless. He drew few others with such reverence, besides perhaps for Sadie or for John, both of whom he had already told her much about. “I remember you mentioned him. Not as much as the others, though. Were you close?” 

“Would’ve liked to have been,” Arthur replied, quietly taking the journal back into his own lap. He sighed. “Yeah. We was close. Closer than I was with the other fellas, at least, besides perhaps for my family.”

By _ family _, he meant Dutch, Hosea, John, Tilly- that much she knew by now. Some part of her envied him sometimes, for the closeness of his family and for all the love he once had. Then her senses returned to her and she recalled they were both here now, alone as ever, with not another soul to their family name. Charlotte idly drew circles in her own writing journal, itching for distraction.

"Hey, Charlotte?"

She stopped drawing. "Yes?"

"How soon y'think you'll be off to publishin' that thing?"

"Soon. This month if I can just get this scene right. It should only take me a few days to be all done, thanks to your help." 

"Mm."

She hesitated, trying to approach the subject gently. "I'm scheduled to meet a young Mr. Hill, due to be coming by train down from Chicago on his way to Saint Denis. He's a representative from a publishing house interested in my book. You can stay behind and rest, if you like, or- I suppose you could-" 

"Y'know the date?"

"...The 26th."

They sat in silence, then, mulling over the news. They'd not been apart for more than a day or two in months now and, though neither Arthur nor Charlotte were particularly keen on a lifestyle of codependency cooped up in a house together, they'd grown to consider one another among the best of friends. She couldn't help the frustrating curiosity which gnawed at her; why did he ask? 

He beat her to the punch. Cleared his throat. "I think...I reckon I ought to be going soon, Charlotte." Before she could bother to interrupt, sputtering half-baked arguments he pushed on; “I’ve been thinkin’ for a while now, I’ve right overstayed my welcome. You didn’t want no sick man livin’ in your guestroom all year, I know, n’I-” 

“Arthur, you’re no trouble to me, honestly! You-” 

“You know the type of men after the type of men like me. Y’know the price on my head, though they prob’ly think I’m deader than dead. If the wrong person sidles up to this here house and sees me, knows me, then I’ve doomed us both, y’hear? I don’t know what trouble the others’ve been gettin’ up to. I miss ‘em, too, Charlotte, I miss ‘em. 

She understood more than most might have, really- some days she felt she was lost and untethered from the rest of the world. No one’s wife, no one’s daughter. Not related or connected to anyone at all. Charlotte looked at him and saw a man worn down by time, glad of her company but still itching to be elsewhere, uneasy in constance having been raised in chaos. The idea of living with as many people at once as he had so many times in his life was unimaginable to her. She couldn’t fathom the size of the hole that absence could leave in a person, the abscess it caused. He was a lonely man. She knew that. He had to leave eventually. She knew that. 

Arthur didn’t speak a word, just waiting.

“Okay.” Her hand covered his. “You must promise you’ll write me. Please.”

“Of course I will,” He replied with a scoff, as though it was to be assumed from the start. “Often as I can, Charlotte, promise. I’ll writecha.” 

“We’ve only been friends a short time, I know, but-” 

“I get it. I do.”

They sat on the porch, holding hands, taking in the peace and the quiet of Roanoke Ridge. 

> °
> 
> _ The 26th…. _

“Take Jimmy.” Charlotte said with the most forceful tone she could muster, thrusting the horses’ tack in Arthur’s direction. 

“-What?”

“Take Jimmy,” She said once more. “I know draft horses aren’t the most ideal for the kind of riding you do, but he’s a good horse. He's big and dumb but clear enough of mind to always find his way home, so there will be no need to worry of losing him. A loyal old fool.” 

“I thought I was the only one of those around these parts.”

“Oh, hush!” As she dug through her bag of supplies to double check every item, she could feel the fits of anxiety which so often troubled her bubbling right beneath the surface. Her hands tingled, head light and posture tense. Her mind buzzed with nervousness. She couldn’t bear to hold still more than a minute, keeping herself busy packing and repacking Missy’s saddlebags. 

Arthur didn’t move towards the horse. She stared, trying for a teasing look to urge him on. “Go on now, why don’t you introduce yourself or something? Jimmy’s particular when it comes to manners.”

It seemed he wasn’t about to play along. He stood, one hand resting on the satchel she’d leant him, once among Cal’s most treasured possessions. It didn’t bother her to pass it along. He cleared his throat. “I’ve already taken enough the time of your life, Charlotte, I ain’t about to take none’a that which sustains it.”

“He doesn’t sustain me a bit. The stubborn old coot is as good for wagon-pulling as he is for eating.” 

“I can’t take nothin’ more from you, Charlotte. ‘Specially not somethin’ so important as a horse.” 

“Please don’t be so stubborn, Arthur. We both know you’ll make it no more than a handful of days lacking a horse, and besides! Won’t it have been much more a waste of my time to help you only for you to die of stubbornness rather than to take my horse?” 

“What if something happens to Missy? And I ain’t stubborn! I-” 

“Missy’s a good horse, Arthur, young and spry, with not a day’s difference to her health since she was a foal. You’d best put those concerns to rest, I won’t have you worrying over me when not even in my company.” 

“I’ll worry all I damn want. Would do it an awful lot less if I weren’t robbin’ you blind of your only draft horse!” 

Charlotte gave him a long, hard glare, the kind she'd given him time and time again when he'd foolishly tried to haul himself up to hunt when he could barely stumble into the kitchen, or the time she'd caught him just about to smoke a cigar. He didn't quite wilt beneath its intensity, but his confidence faltered and hands latched onto the horses reins. "Fine, fine," he grumbled, and quietly went about the business of preparing Jimmy to ride.

"Will you be going into Annesburg with me, Arthur?"

"....No, I think it'd be better I didn't. Wouldn't want you t'be seen in such bad company."

"Oh, of course not. Whatever would I do were my fine reputation betrayed? Woe is me." 

Arthur laughed, swatting at the air in her direction as he patted Jimmy's neck. "Oh, shuddup."

"I'm incapable of _ shudding up _, as you so eloquently put it, my dear Mr Morgan." 

"Pff." Arthur grinned, then gestured with his open arms. "C'mere. Mind if I hug you?" 

"Not at all." 

And so they did. Charlotte sunk into the warmth and the immensely strong embrace of Arthur's arms, the feeling of familiar comfort draining all the nervous energy from her one second at a time. He rested his chin atop her head, humming, swaying ever so slightly to and fro. She felt suddenly struck by the full force of reality, and the truth that when she returned to her cabin, it would be empty once again. She'd be alone. Charlotte Balfour, with too much money to know what to do with and a house with too many empty rooms to feel like a home. 

"I'll miss you, Arthur."

He pressed his cheek to the side of her face. "Thank you f’all you’ve done. I'll miss you too, Charlotte. Don't be alone too long, now, you go publish that book'n get famous or whatever you're seekin' to do. It'll all go well, I've no doubt." 

"I know." Charlotte breathed into the sparse space between them. "You write to me, you hear? You must write." 

"I will." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the back lounge, in between stops  
Contingency plans in case the new one flops  
Sometimes I wake up coughing up blood  
Tonight Indianapolis, tomorrow the flood.  
(Passaic 1975; The Mountain Goats)
> 
> things are gonna start to get a whole lot more exciting from here on out. buckle up for the southern gothic horror... and karen and tilly!


	5. you want more than you have.

The newspaper in his hands was rough, stained by the rain and the remaining ring left from a cup of coffee. Aged. "_ The Lady Of The Manor _," he read aloud, testing the name for its strange familiarity. "The Lady of the…." 

He stood over the body of some nasty feller, a man with crooked teeth who smelled of whiskey and who'd gone carelessly riding by with a young woman on the back of his horse who he hadn't bothered to shut up in her cries for help. She'd long since fled the scene, wanting no part in any of Arthur's business any more than with her kidnapper. He hoped she was well. Regardless.

It clicked as he skimmed through the remainder of the review below. Written by Leslie Dupont, an up and coming young author. Dupont, _ dupont- _ that was the surname which Mary-Beth Gaskill had typically employed when playing a stranger. The first name typically varied. He would have chalked it up to mere coincidence had it not been for the fact that he'd once overheard Charles, Tilly and her holding a long discussion about almost this exact plot. He did recall Tilly calling it _ a lil' bit trite _ , _ don't you think _?

It seemed she didn't think so. 

The dead man's horse whinnied as he leant against it, far off enough from the road not to worry of being seen. A fly buzzed past. It was the first sign he'd seen of anyone from the gang, this happenstance newspaper book review he'd found tucked in the dead man's bag right alongside an old rotten apple and a hearty clip of money. Just a scrap of evidence, but clear enough for him to see the truth; Mary-Beth had made it out safely, and had finished her first book. Warmth spread through him, the relief tangible as it was belated; all he could've hoped for in his near-sacrifice was to give _ someone _ a chance, most of all the Marstons, but really to anyone who deserved a second go at life. He wondered then- what about Tilly? Karen, Sadie--

Charles? 

The swell of emotion that threatened to well up was quickly suppressed, tucked away into the corner of his mind where he stored all other such whims and frustrations. All the things he didn't feel like admitting to himself, even post-mortem. It was always the hardest admitting something to yourself. Tell someone else all you want; deny their reply, but you can't deny yourself, can't deny the voice that narrates your life. So he tucked it all away. Folded it up, the newspaper too, noting the address below which decreed it'd been published in Saint Denis and where to mail fan letters or inquiries to _ Miss Dupont _. He decided he had some mail due to send, and some social calls to make. Throwing the paper down on the man's corpse but for the ripped out page with Mary-Beth's location which he slipped into his new journal, Arthur moved to cut free the man's horse. 

He paused, looking her up and down. She'd seen ugly things, that much could be assumed, but she'd come to no harm during her time with this rat of an owner. In fact she looked to be a _ strong _ horse- relatively expensive, even, especially considering the condition of her origins but in truth he wouldn't have been surprised to learn she was stolen, or won in some high-stakes match of gambling. A dappled black Thoroughbred, she looked like, strong in temperament as she was in her gait. He glanced back at Jimmy, Charlotte's kindly loaned draft horse and thought- _ well, shit _. 

He'd find his way home, if urged. Was dumb and loyal enough for it. Arthur had insight in these things, and could definitely attest to it himself. So he did. Changed the saddles- hoped Charlotte wouldn't be too bothered by the flimsy one sent back to her, a rushed note tucked into one saddlebag with a promise of his safety, and a tease that a dumb man shouldn't ride a dumb horse for the risk of mutual deterioration. Arthur sent Jimmy off with a slap to the hind and a sharp ** _git_ ** _ , boy, go on home _ and went right on ahead to steal the dead fellow's horse. 

There's no stealing from dead men, so they say. Not like he'd be needing it.

"What's your name then, girl?" He asks, coughs, and unfortunately the horse doesn't reply. 

"Ought t'be somethin' fancy, for such a fancy creature as yourself. Can't be out here with somethin' so simple as Millie, or _ Maybelle _ . Pff." The horse huffed. He took it as a sign of agreement, patting her neck. "Y'aint a _ cow _."

She flicked her tail in staunch agreement. The road stretched far ahead of them. 

> ° 

Mary-Beth Gaskill ran to him the instant she laid eyes on him.

Disregarding how filthy and exhausted he was by nigh two days on horseback, she fell into his arms in a flurry of overwhelmed excitement, evidently taking all her efforts not to burst into tears. Arthur almost tipped over from the unanticipated weight taking him by surprise, a rough laugh rumbling through him as he hugged her back, holding her close as was proper and kind. "Arthur- oh, Arthur you silly old coot, I-" 

"Shh." He glanced around with narrowed eyes, trying to parse who within earshot might've caught any of what she said. "Abraham, while I'm here. Jus' Abraham Morgan."

"That's a terrible name!"

He sputtered, grinning as he pulled back to hold her at elbows distance. "That right, Mrs _ Dupont _?" 

His country hick accent molding around the french name must've been awful funny, judging from the echoing peal of her laughter. The delight that flooded through him was just a hair's width from too much for him, having dredged through knee deep grief and unpleasantry for the last months. Though they mightn't have been the closest of the gang, he'd always seen Miss Mary-Beth and Miss Tilly in a good light, like his dear and beloved little sisters. Wondered, really, if they saw him the same at all and if they did, how the current circumstances may have changed that view. He watched as she stepped back, wiping the tears from her freckled face, hair come a bit loose in some places from her usual tied-back style. Maybe it hadn't changed as much as he'd feared.

Mary-Beth snorted, tears still wet on her face. "You smell like horse. It's _ rank _!"

"I know, I know n'I'm sorry for it but there's little to be done just yet. You know anywhere we might be able to talk a lil', no eaves around which to drop n'all?" 

"Of course not, Mr. Abraham, this is _ Saint Denis _ after all. The walls have eyes." She stared at him for a beat, then burst into giggles. "I'm just pullin' your leg! C'mon old man, I've got my own quarters n'all by now. No more sleepin' with Karen snorin' in my ear on one side and Sadie complainin' of it on the other all hours, oh no. Would say I've moved up in the world were it not accountin' for the actual height of my lodgins, if you follow." 

They walked for some time, leaving the train station that they'd agreed upon in their letters to meet in front of, coming closer to the midpoint of town where the shabbier structures of the regular folk melded in amongst the brick and mortar constructions of the wealthy. Arthur pulled his horse gently along by her reins, her ears perked up in interest and mild wariness as she took in the crowded clamor of city life. Mary-Beth told him about her book and its surprising level of success, considering her status as an amateur and a newcomer. The fact the most readers hadn't seen her face nor knew her real name only helped. 

"...and, well, Tilly and I've been gettin' along just as well as we always have, though I've been taken with my book and she's been taken by her own work. Don't know if you knew but she found Karen- I _ know _! Found her over'n that shabby lil' rat-infested back-holler hole of a saloon up town- not enthusiastic of that establishment, I'm not, seen one too many drunks stumble 'cross my way and Karen among 'em-" 

"They're both alright," Arthur spoke, tone half question and half a sigh of relief. The pessimistic side to him had doubted Karen's safety. Her mind and grip on things had seemed to slip a bit from her control, towards the end, something he now regretted not having worked more to help with. Some things couldn't be helped by just anyone, he supposed, just glad she'd fallen into the healthy company of Tilly Jackson. 

"They are." She looped one arm through his elbow; gave his wrist a squeeze just as reassuring as her smile. "You did a good thing for us, y'know that? Gave the most of us a good chance to get out, didn't put in any effort to drag us back."

"That's just basic decency, Miss Dupont, ain't nothin' to be praised." He followed as she guided him beneath an archway and out into a back-alley courtyard. He moved to hitch up his horse by the other two near the archway, both drinking idly from a public trough sat there.

Weren't many people around to hear, besides for some rowdy looking young boys playing with sticks off in the corner, distracted by their own business. He swallowed. "You...you ain't heard nothin' from the Marstons, have you?"

Her face pulled taut. "No, I haven't." Her arm slipped from his and she seemed to collect herself, once again drawing up the more cheerful face she was so very good at conjuring. "I've got to ask who this fine lady you've got in your company is, though. Besides myself of course. Is she a Thoroughbred?"

"Kieran teach y'that?"

She swatted at his arm, and he cringed inwardly a bit at having thoughtlessly brought up such a painful memory. She seemed to take only the happier part of it into account, leaving away the condition they'd last seen the man in. "I know plenty I need to know about horses all on my own! Not hard to notice the name of such a pretty one. What’s her name, anyways?"

"Shoshanah, I think." He scratched the back of his neck. 

"You _ think _?"

"Yeah, she's Shoshanah. Always liked the name. She's a fancy thing, bit high opinion of herself I reckon."

"Ought to've named her Molly if that's the case," Mary-Beth laughed, expression falling away into something rather sad for one fleeting moment. Her voice evened out. She brushed along the horses shining neck. "She's a pretty thing ...you must miss your Amma."

"Amma was a good horse. Did me good, in the end, got me far n'saved my life far more'n I'd deserved." Amma died too soon; Arthur still missed her so much. He tried for a smile, feeble as it was false. Tried then for a distraction. "No use millin' about here. You gonna show me to your lodgin's or shall I wait for an invitation first, _ m'lady Dupont _?" 

She scoffed, tugging him across the courtyard and into one of the smallest corner-side doorways. The door creaked as it pushed open into the cramped space of her quarters; a table and two mismatching chairs were planted square in the middle of the entryway some few feet away from the entrance. Arthur made to respectfully take off his hat, only remembering at the last moment that he hadn't one. The place was clouded by the thick chemical smell of the city. Coal burned hot somewhere not far off, the stench evident, though blocked to some degree by the shut windows across the way that looked over nothing but a brick wall in a misshapen alley. The sitting room was sparse, with a chest and a small table, some chairs upon which to sit and an enormous pile of books. He thought he wouldn't be wrong to guess that all the literature might easily have been the most expensive thing in the place. One door lead left and another right, both firmly shut. 

"It's got no hot water," Mary-Beth lamented as she shoved the door closed behind him with the full force of her weight, "but the furnitures sick-free and there's windows and room and no need for to share it with a roommate."

"No room for one neither," Arthur quipped without thinking, then biting his tongue. Quickly tried to re-acquaint himself to his manners. "It's a nice place you've got, Mary-Beth. I'm glad you've found somewhere nice t'settle."

"It's yours as well long as I'm here in the city," she replied, milling about the counter and canisters of coffee there. "You're welcome to stay the night here in the front room, can pull out some bedding for you. I'll be leaving tomorrow morning t'head down south for some work with my writing. A fella from some bank offered to strike up a deal with me. You still take your coffee black?"

"Yes ma'am, and thank you. Not a lover of the brown gargle myself." She shrugged and poured it on to boil. "Tomorrow y'say? Why so quick?"

"Not runnin' from you if that's what you're implyin', Arthur, and it's scarcely _ quick _ seein' as I've been living here some months now! The book business is a fast one and one you can't anticipate much about."

"Well, then, I'll try not t'overstay my welcome. I'll be out 'fore midday." He nodded gratefully as she placed the mug of coffee in front of him, the steam pleasantly wafting in the air, staunching the chemical city-smell. "You mentioned Tilly was in these parts, before."

"Yessir." Mary-Beth plopped unceremoniously down onto the chair across from him. "Up in the nicer parts of town, she's taken up residency alongside Karen, I believe, workin' a live-in job. Domestic help."

"Domestic help," he repeated, the doubt ringing clear in his voice. Could almost hear the echo of every instance Susan had chided the girls for their so-called laziness in regards to laundry, and the average chores of the like. Couldn't imagine Karen working to appease the whims of some stuck-up aristocrats wife. "That's a ...surprise." 

"No more surprisin' than myself bein' a writer and yourself bein' _ alive _, I'd think."

"Fair point." Arthur hummed, and drank from his coffee. Bit lighter than he preferred. He didn't mind. 

"Why'd you ask?"

"Thought I might like to see the girls, if they're here in the city so close. Make sure they're alright. If there's nothin' I can't do them for, just- I'd just like t'see 'em." 

Mary-Beth nodded. Her hands flew from her abandoned cup of coffee and moved instead to roughly rifle through the stack of newspapers and documents that'd accumulated on the other end of her kitchen table, finally coming upon whatever she sought with a little '_ yes!' _ of success. She slid it across the table to him.

_ Matilda J. Jones.  
_An address. 

"Matilda. Thought she hated bein' called that." 

"You think I love the name _ Leslie _?"

"Uh- why'd y'choose it?" 

"It sounded charmin' with the surname!"

They both burst into laughter, Arthur's interrupted here and there by a rough near-cough and the swipe of a hand over his coffee-stained lips, grinning to have reconnected so happily with his old friend. He hadn't expected it to be this easy. Had anticipated anger or fear, maybe, because that was always what he expected from people who came face to face with him, but nothing like this. He smiled, really smiled, and reached to squeeze her hand in gratitude. Hope didn't feel quite so distant now.

> °

The first punch hit harder than he’d anticipated. 

Blood gushed, hot and unpleasant, down from his nose; Charles brusquely swiped at it with the back of his arm, continuing to go in wary circles around the other man. He dodged another strike to the face, felt a push against his back from someone in the mass of shouting, gambling drunkards that circled them. He’d already forgotten the other mans name. Fake, invented and inflated with grandeur, much like his own alias. He’d had a little less say in the title chosen for him. 

He’d been called a lot of things in his time. _ A mountain of a man _ . _ Strong as an ox, unbeatable, frightening, stoic, strong as twelve men _. Nothing more respectful of his nature overall; no title acknowledged his humanity, or his ability to die just as any other. His ability to be hurt. He didn’t necessarily want to be seen as anything but strong- that was part of his survival, and what had gotten him so far in such a dangerous world- but sometimes it just felt false. Like a mask he wore for convenience, fused to his face over time. 

Someone in the crowd yelled, "Get him! Bring him down!"

He caught the other man in an uppercut. Blood spattered in the air. A tooth, he thought, went flying, a brutal choking sound coming from the assaulted opponent. He reeled and coughed and came back in swinging, a hot rage in his eyes that Charles hadn’t quite anticipated. He won most of these fights, excluding of course when he was paid much higher for to fail. He hated this work, every part of it. A hand caught him square in the front of the face and he could feel the blood pounding there, the cartilage of his nose throbbing so painful it almost went numb. His hands tingled and heart pounded in his chest, furious and fast as the crowd roared louder, raucous laughter and the disgusting smell of whiskey on the men’s breath gusting over and around them, the back-alley stench strong and unrelenting. He steeled himself, breathed hard, knowing that he’d surely come out of this with a half-broken nose and covered in blood. 

He wasn’t paid to fail this time. 

The man swung to punch again, emboldened by the two successful previous hits; he didn’t expect for Charles to grab him by the forearm as he dodged it, the full force of his frustration serving to throw him to the ground. The crowd parted in a roar, rolling back as the man slipped on the slick cobblestone, fumbling for the grip to push himself up again. Charles didn’t give him the chance. This wasn’t the place for fair fights. The same would be done to him, were the positions reversed. Maybe worse. 

Following three hard, firm kicks to the side the man relented, throwing up a trembling hand in feeble surrender. 

Spitting the blood from his mouth Charles turned from the raucous crowd that jostled him, pulled at his arms and back in frustration or delight, their debts due and gambles made. He shook them off and tried to hold a firm gait, quickly pulling up his shirt from where he’d left it, attending to the collection of his due winnings. The crowd filtered out, quieted and drifted back off to their wives and their bars and their business, scattering in all directions as they could. The money felt heavy in his pocket. 

He looked back at the crowd. There stood the man- a Mr _ Hugh Langston _, he remembered now, bloodied and clutching his hip with both hands, being tugged on demandingly by some man clearly frustrated by his loss, his brother Bill by his side. He'd beaten Bill in a fight too, not more than a week ago. The Langstons had a look in both their eyes that told Charles he ought to be getting out of here, and fast.

He’d had some trouble finding work out in these parts. Saint Denis was a great place to get lost, a good place to lose yourself as it was to lose all your money quick. So he did grunt work. Fights in back alleys when nothing else paid better. Lifting boxes and bins in nondescript factories, working some nights as a bodyguard for the rare rich folk who thought him suitable. He’d recently struck up a deal with the local fence, agreeing to hunt some much needed items, find some exotic feathers for a collector or two, the like. If he was truthful with himself, he didn’t know where to start. 

Walking in a brusque pace down the side streets, Charles tried to avoid calling any more attention to himself than his bloodied nose and clothing already did. At the moment he was just trying to keep himself and Taima alive and well. His mind tossed and turned over whether he should skip town tonight or not. How mad had his opponent really been? There were more jobs to do here. Most of all he was hungry. Frustrated. Alone. Still, he refused to allow the melancholy and the stress of things overtake him, or drive him to destitution. 

He didn't mind people, liked them and their company much more than most people might assume of him. He just didn't like the idea of strangers becoming too cognizant of him. City people alarmed him; Charles didn't like to think that they might recognize him, become familiar with his routines as he did with theirs, with the laundry ladies, paper boys, the factory workers and domestic helpers that went by him in their mornings. Didn't like to think that they might know which way he walked, what clothes he wore, which people he spoke to. For some it was a safety net. For him, it was a breach of privacy. It was for this reason that he rarely allowed himself to drift off in his thoughts as he walked, focusing intensely on each step, peering into the faces of passerby, trying to keep himself as small and nondescript as he could for a man of his stature. It usually didn’t work. But he noticed, still, the details of the world around him and all those who passed by the same roads. It surprised him sometimes how people lived so in their own worlds, always on the same paths and same roads, completing the same tasks day after day. Didn’t they get tired? 

He saw the way the woman with the straw hat stared at him, aghast at the state of his face. He saw how the paperboy urgently waved a newspaper in his direction, already disillusioned to the world and its roughness, not caring at all about who might buy his papers so long as he got a coin in his pocket by the end of it. He saw the man who walked by in his nice clothes, far too nice to be about these parts, and how he leered at the nanny that stood at the curb with her charge, waiting for the wagons to pass. Maybe it was just the paranoia talking.

And then he saw something he hadn’t accounted for. A face he hadn’t thought he’d see again. 

“You’re kiddin’ me.” 

He just stared.

"What in the goddamn _ hell _ are you doin' here?"

"Karen?" 

Karen Jones, in the flesh, stood right in his way. She clutched a bulky package in her arms, seemingly frozen to the spot. "If I didn't have this box I might just do a jig. I didn't know you were still alive and kickin', Mr Smith, though I guess it's most likely _ you _ might make it considering the other odds." 

Charles didn't know what to do. At a loss for words, but still geared towards getting out of this area- he didn't risk a look over the shoulder, but could sense they ought not to linger- he gestured towards her things. "Suppose so. Can I help you with that?"

"No, you sure can't, thank you! I won't have you gettin' blood on this thing, I just walked a pilgrimage and a half t'pick it up." 

Anxiety plucked at his frayed nerves. "I'd like to catch up with you, Miss Jones, but we shouldn't hang around this area too much longer. Either we go back to where I'm staying at the moment and talk, or we split here, for your own good." 

"Alright, lead the way. I've got time." She quickly repositioned the box in her arms, staying close to his side as they crossed the street, him guiding her down the right streets. "And it's Mrs Jackson, while we're in Saint Denis. Carrie Jackson."

He smiled, quick and teasing. "Mm. Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs Jackson."

"How 'bout you?"

He urged her quickly as he could down an alley, listening for company. "Nothing. Just my name." 

He glanced back from where they came and saw no one noteworthy or concerning. Nothing. Just some school-children passing by. A man absorbed in his book. He still felt followed. 

Karen was staring at him, waiting. "We gonna go wherever you're takin' me or are you gonna look around nervous as hell all day?" 

Shoving aside the cold chill of anxiety that still drove him forwards, he briefly allowed the relief to flow over him. Who knew an old friends face could bring such comfort? He had missed Karen. She could cuss like a sailor, and drink like one too. She even looked a bit like one today- her hair was shorter than before and clung in tight curls over her ears, dressed in a white button-up men’s shirt tucked neatly into her dark green skirt. A healthy flush colored her cheeks. He realized he was staring. "Sorry. What have you got in the box?" 

She shrugged, plucked idly at the ribbon on top. They continued together on their way. "Well, it's really nothin' fancy but that's pretty much the point. It's a present for Tilly."

"Tilly? She's alright?"

"She's just fine, yeah."

"I'm relieved. I was worried about both of you. Here, up the stairs." He herded Karen up the stairs down the back of the saloon he'd been keeping a room in, hoping they'd taken enough strange turns to get the Langstons off the trail. 

She clicked her tongue, glancing about the halls of the saloon. "Should've asked me for a drink first, Mr Smith, could've told you I've already got a woman back home."

"Come on." Charles pushed open the door to his room with his back, gesturing that she enter. Breathing a little easier now that they were out of the public eye, he tried for conversation. "Can I see what you got her?" 

She grinned, obviously a bit giddy over the gift. 

The box was of a soft, light colored material. Inside was a white button up shirt bespeckled in soft blue spots, and beneath were a pair of folded blue men's trousers. He peered at it from a foot away, trying not to touch so as to heed her warning about his bloodied hands. "I never knew Tilly was fond of wearing pants."

"Well- not everyone can be as confident as Mrs Adler!"

"Mm."

"It's more complicated than that, sure, but don't know how much I ought to tell you without askin' her first." She shut the lid, setting it aside on the dresser. "I know she'll have all these worries 'bout the cost, but really it weren't any trouble. She and I've been working, doing the domestic help for this lady uptown, staying in her helpers quarters 'til we've got the funds to get out of here."

"Why did you buy them?" He hoped his voice was as free of judgement as he meant it to be.

"Because.. 'cause I think she doesn't always believe me when I say we're gonna get out and do what we promised each other we'd do."

"Hmm. What'd you promise?"

"A life. A real life, not runnin' with a gang and robbin', always pickpocketing to get by. A house. Little farm. She wants goats. She says she wants to name one Lillybell. I just want Tilly to know we're only stuck here for a bit, you understand? That soon we'll be out. Wear what we want, take care of our own things and not be cleaning up after nobody." 

Charles nodded, moving to the counter where he kept a basin of clean, boiled water. "I understand. If there's any way I can help, now you know where to find me."

"Yeah, _ this _ shithole." 

He snorted, undoing the top two buttons of his shirt to clean the blood off him. Would have to take a bath later to get truly clean, but didn't mind waiting if it meant he'd have some companionship for a while. When was the last time he'd really just spoken to a friend? 

"I know what you want to ask."

"What's that?"

"About me. How the hell I'm still breathing." She sighed. "I'm off the drink." 

He said nothing. Nodded. The water was room temperature, not the refreshing cold he'd been hoping for as he washed his face of the crusted, stinking blood that clung to him from the nose down. 

"Have you taken it up?" Karen asked, gesturing broadly to him as she took a seat on the bed, sitting inelegantly with her legs crossed in her lap. He squinted at the sight of her shoes up on the bed like that. "Drinking."

"No."

"I'm hardly in a place to judge. Just asking."

"Would I lie?"

She sucked on her teeth. A frown hung on her face when she asked, "Then what's got you in such a rush? All bloody like this? Is it gamblin'? Fightin'? You owe somebody?"

"Something like that." 

"What kinda business've you gotten yourself tied up in that'd end in you lookin' like a gutted rabbit?" 

"It's not _ that _ bad."

"It sure ain't pretty." 

"Mmhm."

"Charles." 

He stopped scratching at the crusted blood that still clung after washing, turning, expectant, alert. 

"You should stop, Charles." 

"I'm not drinking, Karen, and I've made no bets." 

"I don't mean that, don't be thick. I mean- _ this _. Gettin' yourself all bloodied up for a couple dollars. I thought we all-"

"We all...what?"

"I thought we all gave up on thievin' and fightin' to get by."

"Where did you get the extra money?"

"Huh?"

"For that." Charles pointed at the box. Not accusingly, just clear, inquisitive, asking for honesty. He moved to sit by her. Karen didn't look him in the eyes. Couldn't.

"I- fine. I mean no more _hurtin'_ _people_, Charles, or lettin' ourselves get hurt for the chance at some small winnin's. Nobody's winnin' when you've got your nose broke." 

"...It's not broken."

"Like I said- ain't pretty."

"Never claimed to be."

They sat quietly for a moment, Karen with her hands in her lap and a lamenting look in her eyes. It seemed she'd softened over time, and grown tougher all the same, though he wouldn't have thought it possible. She didn't smell like whiskey any more or slur when she laughed. She walked more surely, unburdened by her worries and her fears. He wondered what her and Tilly's life must be like, and couldn't help the mild sting of jealousy that stuck in him since her mentioning of their dreams for the future. A farm. Some peace. Escape. He had underestimated his memory of solitude, back when he'd chosen to go it alone again. Had underestimated how much more it hurt once you'd had a taste of closeness, had even a passing dream of something better.

"What else do you suggest I do?" He asked honestly, turning to look her in the eye. It took her a second to formulate a good reply.

"I heard from one of my friends there's jobs up in Lakay and Lagras controllin' the gator population. They say there's just too many. Saint Denis high society wants to spread out- can't do that with a bunch of monsters bitin' at their ankles." 

He frowned in distaste. Didn't like the cause, but certainly needed the opportunity. "That's a good idea." 

"It'd get you out of the city, too," she said, and reached over to scratch at the bridge of his nose where blood still clung. He wrinkled his nose, grinning, pulling back. "seeing as you're not too popular." 

"We'll have to see if the Gators like me any better." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are not a better person tomorrow than you are today, what need have you for a tomorrow?"  
(– Rebbe Nachman of Breslov.)


	6. i still seek more.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur had needed to come here to soothe that restlessness that itched perpetually at him. Having spent the larger part of his life in the feeble, idolizing service of Dutch, a workhorse by design, raised into the role of the defender as well as the ever vigilant caregiver- well, Arthur felt aimless. Worried. Constantly on edge thinking of all the terrible things that might have befallen his old friends were he not, as Tilly had said, there to stand between it and them. It, being the world. It being the things he no longer had the jurisdiction to ward off in the night.

The train had pulled out of the station with a great heaving wheeze of smoke and the sound of grinding metal. Mary-Beth waved from the window for as long as he could see her; he was sure she wouldn't stop until her wrist grew sore. 

Arthur squinted down at the address and directions Mary-Beth had given him.  _ Matilda Jones.  _ His face drew up into the slightest of smiles as he considered the meaning of her chosen surname- he'd had his own suspicions for a very long time, but hadn't the confidence to breach the topic. He'd not been ready to respond in the event that she might have asked,  _ and what about you _ ? 

The streets were occupied by dozens and dozens of busy passerby. Those who pass him either took no notice whatsoever of his presence as they went about their business- or they stared, unflinching and directly at him. Whatever it was that made city folk so bold, so careless of their surroundings and yet still so vigilant and quick to judge as any small town gossip, he did not know and did not care to. A paperboy shook his hand demandingly at him; a priest made a wide berth at his approach, so wide he went so far as to cross the road entirely. A lawman squinted at him from over his handlebar mustache. A young girl with a toy hoop in hand went skipping haphazardly across the road, uncaring for the large outlaw and even larger horse which very nearly ran her over. Shoshanah snorted uneasily, soothed only by Arthur's murmured reassurances.

He could hear the sounds of a fight from down a side road, so small it might've been considered an alley. Men yelled and cursed, cheering, howling in defeat; the dull sounds of punches landed on flesh and the resounding hoots of victory. A man yelling  _ "Get him! Bring him down!" _ echoed over the street and off the glass panel windows of some hat shop by the way. Gambling, probably. He kept on his way, intending to stay far and clear of any such business for the time being. 

Almost half an hour and an awful lot of close calls with reckless wagon drivers later, Arthur found himself standing in front of a shamefully large house that just so happened to be the current residence of a certain Miss Matilda Jones. He didn't know much about city life, but he did know one thing, and that was that the domestic helpers most often lived in a space permanently attached to the main house. 

A nervous looking, pale young man with bright red hair swept tightly underneath a straw hat stood not far off, snipping quickly and precisely at the stray branches of a bush preceding the walkway. Arthur gave him a hard look. "What's your name, boy?"

"Me? Me?" He asked in the thickest accent Arthur had heard since Sean's passing, "Oh- I'm, I'm Henry, mister, sir."

"Alright, Henry, you know a Miss Jones?"

The young fellow squinted up at Arthur as he came closer, his broad form casting a distinct shadow over him. "I do, yes, in fact I do, go right along 'round the back n'yal find'er, right you will. The red frame door, aye, with all'n the flowers out about it, sir."

"Thank you kindly."

"Uhh- obliged, sir." 

Arthur had to suppress his grin, leaving the young man to his gardening and taking on a determined gait as he approached the door he'd spoken of. It wasn't much- just a little diamond-roofed thing with the siding pressing against that of the finer, larger house. Behind it stood another facing the opposite direction, surely a residence for more household hands. The boy had been right; there were flowers everywhere. Arthur took a deep breath and knocked thrice. 

Silence.

"Just a moment!" 

Muffled by the door he could hear the quick scuffle of shoes, and then- 

"Hello, Miss Jones." He smiled.

Tilly looked like she was somewhere between fainting, running, and striking him in the face. 

They stared at one another- her with wide, doe-like eyes and him with the nervous avoidance of a boy caught in the act of thieving from the sweets shop. Neither moved. He couldn't resist. His hands twitched and then all at once he stepped forward, pulling her to him in a hug, rudely reminded yet again of how much taller than him she really was when he ended up being the one on his tiptoes. 

Tilly was the closest he'd ever had to a little sister.

She evidently didn't mind the impromptu hug, sinking gladly into the embrace. "You're  _ alive _ ." 

He smiled. The short, fresh cut of her hair tickled the side of his face. "I sure hope so."

Then it was her turn to take him by surprise- casting a quick and wary look out and about over the edge of his shoulder she forcefully tugged him into the house, firmly slamming the door behind her. "What in the hell possessed you to come right here t'our house to see me, Arthur?"

"Glad to see you too, Tilly-"

"It ain't like that and you know it. I'm overjoyed to see you, Arthur, really I am, I'm simply sayin' I live here, I  _ work _ here, it don't do anybody no good to see your outlaw self lurkin' about the door. Did anybody see you?"

"Henry, I think his name was, that fella trimmin' the bushes up ahead."

She thought on it for a second. "Fine. He won't tell a soul, ain't nobody who speaks to him to find out."

They looked eachother up and down once more, her gaze turning sharply towards his muddy boots. He'd stepped in one puddle too many along the road. 

"My girl don't take well to fellas stompin' their mud all 'round the house."

"Wouldn't call it a  _ house _ , myself- didn't think Karen cared none about things like that neither."

Tilly glared. He withered, holding his hands up in surrender. "Sorry! Meant no offense by it, only…"

"It's the next best t'a  _ house _ we've got, and she didn't  _ care _ none when we was livin' in a half collapsed plantation mess, or the dang wilderness." 

Arthur quickly stepped back towards the door, hurriedly and thoroughly wiping his boots against the nondescript welcome mat. He tried for humor to lighten the sudden tension. "Speakin' of the drunk of the house, where's she keepin'? If she's off in some saloon, I'm familiar enough with 'em t'go get her, drag her back here. Ain't no trouble."

She flashed him a look once more. "Tell me why you woke up today, opened your mouth, and decided to keep your foot in it 'til tomorrow?"

"I-"

"No, listen. I trust her more'n that. My Karen- she ain't who you remember her being towards the end. Don't you remember her, Arthur? Like she was way back before it all went t'hell. That woman, that's the woman I trust and that's the woman out there minding her own damn business and who'll be back before dark without a doubt. She's doin' work, I'm sure. I trust her." 

"Of course. I apologize, Tilly. Seems I lost my manners right along with my senses. I only meant t'ask where she's keepin'- Mary-Beth told me you was livin' together."

Tilly fiddled with her apron, smoothing it out over and over. She swallowed audibly, followed by a very determined nod, forcing some confidence into her tone. "We is."

He smiled, moving over towards the dining table. "I'm glad of it. You both deserve a good, solid second chance at things."

"Thank you, Arthur. The two of us kept up a bit once she'd chosen to leave camp. Only just one letter- I hope you'll understand why I ain't thought it was right to share it with y'all." 

He nodded. They both took a seat at the dining table across from one another.

"Well, I knew for a fact she was millin' in these parts. I ran off this direction once we'd all gone our own ways, with my mind set on one thing. Found her at her  _ lowest. _ I'd thought I'd long since seen it, Arthur but no. Nah, I ain't seen her like that before. Hope I won't never have to again." A look of genuine distress overcame her, hands grasping a stray string of her apron, winding and unwinding it repeatedly around her forefinger and thumb. "Those first couple months weren't easy for neither of us. Had to find employment, n'all'a that, I got back to pickpocketin' a while to get by and just to keep the two of us off'n the street and to this day I still ain't know where Karen got her part of the funds but I found it unfair to ask, seeing as I'm not so keen to share my methods myself."

Arthur couldn't think of much to say. Silently he laid out a hand, palm up, inviting her should she need the comfort. She eyed the offering uneasily before finally grasping his hand in her own, squeezing tightly. 

"She's not perfect. But she ain't no villain neither and she tried harder than I think I ever seen anybody try. Laid off the drink with only a bit of bellyachin'- y'see, I think she was done too, at some point. Tired of it all. Missed havin' a clear head; I think she just needed somebody to show her what was good left to see n'stay aware for." Tilly sniffed, her free hand still tugging at the frayed strings she clutched. "I wasn't so well myself. You know me, I meet trouble with toil, not with no cloud over my head like you always was so good at. Nobody's got time for my troubles. Always been my job to pick that up after myself. Weren't 'til I helped Karen so much and one day she turns to me and says, why won't you let me help you too? N'I couldn't find one good reason. I couldn't." 

Arthur looked around her and Karen's home, meagre in decadence or finery as it was. A humble but sure place. Clearly loved well, were the handsewn doilies on the tables and the haphazardly stitched together floral curtains anything to judge by. For the entirety of his time in Saint Denis he'd struggled with some unspoken thing, some demanding sensation itching at the back of his mind and driving him to anxiousness. He thought on Mary-Beth's comfortable little apartment as well, and now too, watching Tilly as she tenderly touched the leaf of the potted plant on the table between them.

It was only now that he realized a truth, that deep and shameful truth that resided within the lot of them. It was true that many of them stayed in the gang for that sense of family, for loyalty, for belonging. Maybe even for the hope that Dutch was right; that their Robin Hood type of life was sustainable, was even a vision of the future. That communal life unrestrained by government inflicted law could bring joy in all aspects. He thought he might still believe in that, in his own strange way, but- but beneath all that- once the pain came in and the pieces of their  _ family _ began to fall apart, the truth was that they had been afraid. Deeply afraid, painfully so, of a future with no aim nor given direction. Most had come in wounded in some way or another, helpless creatures desperate for scraps, made life-long loyal companions through the simple act of a pat on the back and a bowl of warm food. 

It was astounding what terror could do to a person. 

Even more so to see how unfounded that terror had been, and how good things could be in the aftermath.

"Arthur, you alright in there?" 

He forced himself to focus, shaking his head. "Sure, sure. I'm real sorry t'hear such troubles struck you, but I'm relieved it seems to have passed." Arthur's mouth felt dry, struggling to find the words he sought. "I hope me bein' here hasn't tracked in anythin' you didn't want to see again."

"No, you haven't." She gently let go of his hand, giving it a reassuring pat. "You was always good to me, Arthur. Helped me when I was lost, kept me company when the days got long n'I couldn't find a soul willin' to help distract me from all the chaos goin' on around us. Came and got me back when I… when… when I got taken. Never was a day I didn't feel safe with you by. Were little to worry over, with big strong old Arthur standin' between it'n me."

Humbled embarrassment flooded through him at being described in such a way. He knew he didn't deserve a lick of it, all of what she said the kinds of words better meant for a better man, but they meant much to him nonetheless. He privately swore to do well by her in any way he could, should she ever have need of it. He'd be there. "I ain't deservin' of it, but thank you Tilly. Ain't nothin' I weren't more'n glad t'do for you."

She smiled, leaning back in her chair. Y'know.... I almost didn't recognize you without your hat. Thought that thing'd melded to your head." 

"I know, I was surprised too."

They laughed then, Arthur again struck by the easygoing understanding between them. He'd gotten so wound up in the troubles of Dutch and Micah that towards the end he'd taken little time for the girls. His laughter was abruptly cut short by a thick cough that shook through his diaphragm, one arm clamped tightly over his chest as he covered his mouth, turning away. Tilly shot forward, hand hanging uselessly midair. 

"Are you alright? Arthur?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Uh- You wouldn't know what came of, or maybe where to find some of the others, would you? Sadie, maybe, John and Abigail? Jack?" He paused to swallow, forcing as much normalcy as he could muster into his tone, "Charles?" 

She eased stiffly back into her seat and shook her head. "Nothin' much. All I know is Reverend's off in New York, presumably got himself all fixed and done up in a new life. Javier and Bill, all the boys, they- well, seems they done scattered to the wind. John and Abigail got out safely with Jack! I know that much, but I haven't got a clue as to  _ where _ they've gone." Chewing her lip, she seemed to be sifting through her memory for any scraps which to share with him. "As to Sadie n'Charles in particular I haven't a clue. I'm real sorry, Arthur. Think I read the native folk up in Wapiti fled somewhere. Sadie was there with me'n Abigail and all, when we divided, but I haven't heard nothin' in regards to her since."

Arthurs mind reeled as he processed all she'd shared. By the sound of it, he'd done what he intended, what he hoped, begged and bled and near died for. Most everyone was safe. Living their own lives. It frustrated him to know that some who did not, in his opinion, deserve the same second chance- Dutch, Bill and Micah all came unpleasantly to mind- had received it. 

"Your turn."

"Uh- pardon?"

"Come on! Tell me what the hell you got yourself into. To be blunt, Arthur, we'd all thought you deader'n dead. Can't just stumble up to my doorstep 'n not explain. Where've you been hidin'?" 

"Well. It weren't nice. Micah- well, he beat me half to death. Tried to do him the same favor, but I doubt it worked half as well." He fumbled with his hands, wringing them on the table before him as old anger boiled within him. "Woke up beat all to hell 'n sick as it too. Didn't think I'd live a day longer. This woman I knew, Charlotte, a real kind soul with 'nough compassion to make the devil stutter, she helped me through the worst of it."

"Really?"

"Thought my lungs might shrivel and dry so I might cough 'em up, some days. Bad business. Real bad business."

"But you're better."

"All thanks to her and her goodness. I stayed there quite some time, 'til I was better'nough t'go." He caught Tilly's gaze, holding it fiercely. "I want you t'know, there wasn't no day I didn't think about y'all. You and the girls and the Marstons, just hopin' you'd found some peace and some goodness in this mean ole world." 

Her eyes glimmered, cheeks round and smile reassuringly broad. "We did, Arthur. Don't you worry yourself none. I missed you badly." 

Arthur couldn't look her in the eye. Grumbled, then, "Ugh,  _ shucks _ ." 

She laughed for a minute, patting his hand as she grinned across at him. Her face sobered again quickly, however. "What brought you down to this ole pit of snakes, then?"

He wasn't sure how willing he was to admit that he'd come most of all to see his friends, his old family, to prove some silly point to himself that he had done well. Arthur had needed to come here to soothe that restlessness that itched perpetually at him. Having spent the larger part of his life in the feeble, idolizing service of Dutch, a workhorse by design, raised into the role of the defender as well as the ever vigilant caregiver- well, Arthur felt aimless. Worried. Constantly on edge thinking of all the terrible things that might have befallen his old friends were he not, as Tilly had said, there to stand between it and them. It, being the world. It being the things he no longer had the jurisdiction to ward off in the night. It, being everything. He rubbed a hand over his slowly growing stubble. Struggled to scrounge up a believable excuse.

"T'find work, and investigate what'd happened to the last of us. Check that there weren't nothing still left for to be done." Arthur tried for humor again, going for something lighter this time. " _ Aaaand _ , to make sure you weren't havin' too much fun without me."

"When did I ever have fun  _ with _ you?" Tilly asked, and they both laughed at the enormity of the lie, grins wide and yet gone quick as they came. She sobered. "Work, though, you say?"

"I do."

"I might just have somethin' good."

He didn't need work. Didn't need money, really, had quite a bit still left to live off of gifted by Charlotte, but then again- then again, money ran out faster than a milk pail full of gunshot holes and he didn't mind to work again were it in service of a person badly in need of help. He nodded and gestured for her to continue.

"Her names Alma Neall. New friend of mine, but I trust her- there's been strange rumors in these parts, Arthur."

"When ain't there been?"

"I mean  _ stranger _ than strange. Queer as it might be scary. Disappearances. Blood and no trail, no trial, silence from the law in town 'n it's all among ladies and young fellas like me, or young Mr Henry you met out front. Domestic help. Cleaners. Nannies. Maids, cooks, gardeners- lots of us folk going missing. All there by night and by daylight comes, they're clear gone, traceless." 

He stared flatly for a moment. “I ain’t sure that’s my area of expertise.”

"Well, the law seems to think it ain't theirs neither. So far it seems it's you or no one."

"I'm not sure, Tilly..."

"I can't make you do nothing you don't want to. It's just a suggestion, seein' as y'said you're lookin' for work, and it's good honest work."

"Is it?"

"...I'm scared, Arthur. Couple nights ago I was walkin' home and I could just feel somethin' comin' up on me, plottin' on me. Everytime I turned there weren't nothin' but I couldn't shake that feeling. It only stopped when I walked real fast to somewhere brightly lit, lots of folks about out after some party."

Protective anger flashed white hot through him. His hands clenched. "I'm sorry that happened, Tilly. Real sorry."

She shrugged. 

"So- you're tellin' me this thing, or this person is gettin' folks n'you need my help cause you're scared the next might be you, yeah?" 

"Sure. But I'm not the one askin'. I don't know a thing 'bout the situation and I don't plan to start! I'm just pointin' you the direction of someone who  _ does _ ." 

"Ain't sayin' I'll do it, but- tell me more about this Miss Neall. What does she know?"

> °

"If there's one thing I know for sure it's that something isn't right with Manon Northcote." 

"Ahuh. Am I supposed to know who the hell that is?"

Alma Neall stopped in the middle of pinning up a stained old floral sheet to the line, brows both shot so high they might've been swept up beneath her bangs had it not been for the breeze. "Oh,  _ no one! _ Just the god-dang aristocratic daughter of Mr. Northcote, wealthiest oil magnate this side of Ambarino, following the shit-stain that was Leviticus Cornwall!"

The name struck a cord of distaste in him. He grumbled. "Damn, alright…"

"You saw that big old sickly green house on your way over here, didn't you?" She went back to furiously pinning up the sheets.

"I did." 

"That's the royal bitch's palace itself. Massive, isn't it? Sickening! Such an eyesore."

"You got any real reasons t'be bringin' her up or is she just a real stick up your ass you was needin' t'complain about to somebody? Maybe you can just steal one of her garden gnomes and y'all'll be even." 

"I'm  _ trying  _ to get to the point. See, I'm a maid for my own rich fellow with too many frivolous needs, myself. Your friend Miss Jones probably already told you so. Anyways, I've a suspicion that all these disappearances might tie back to this area, and specifically to that nasty eyesore Mrs Northcote is so bold as to call a residence, and I can say so confidently  _ because  _ I am a maid."

"Go on, get to it."

"Mrs. Northcote lives alone over there. Now, maybe to you and wherever you come from that ain't strange at all." Alma gave him a look over. He self consciously swayed from one foot to another. "But, her domestic help is much too sparse for a lady of her status or a house that big and get this- she sends them all home,  _ home! _ to their own places every evening before sundown. She's only got a butler, name of Ephraim Ackley- ugly as his name, yes- and two maids I've not spoken much to. Sarah Anne something or other, and a Francine Lou."

"So? Plenty of folks appreciate their alone time. Maybe she don't like havin' many folks about her business all hours of the day 'n night."

She tried to clip a shirt up with such anger-driven gusto that in the breeze it blew flat out of her hands and into Arthur, who flinched hard and sputtered as he pulled it off of himself. "I'm saying it's  _ strange _ !" She exclaimed, and yanked it back out of his hands. 

Arthur huffed. "I'm done here."

" _ What _ ? Wait!" Alma grasped at his own shirt then with one firm yank, staring up at him with wild, desperately imploring eyes, Arthur trying hard to avoid the direct eye contact. "My friend's gone missing, my friend Louisa. She worked here with me, but sometimes she'd help Sarah and Francine on the Northcote estate for a bit of change when their load got too much to handle. Under the table business, you understand!" 

He pried her fingers off his shirt, standing still, listening.

"My boss doesn't care. He won't listen, he says she just skipped town." She shook her head, tears welling up in her eyes all of a sudden.

"Hey… it's, uh it's alright. Breathe a minute, tell me what happened."

"I don't know! I don't know. She went across about five days ago, I think, saying she was off to help the girls with some laundry seeing as they'd taken too long and would be stuck with it past sundown if she didn't come. But I think- I… well, she never came back. I was out in the front checking with my own employer about his wagon when we both heard this terrible screech from the Northcote estate."

"And ..?"

"And, it was a sound like nothin' I've ever heard about. Like a mad, sick dog yowling at the verge of death, but a human too, a human  _ scream _ like someone going through much the same thing. I haven't seen Sarah or Francine in a couple of days now- they haven't been on their usual shopping routes."

"You said she had another worker 'round the house."

"Ephraim Ackley, her butler fellow! Yeah. I've seen him as I've always seen him, though he never came out of the house beyond the porch any more than the other three of the household did. He's been doing as though everything were normal."

"How're you sure it ain't?"

"It isn't like Louisa not to come to work, much less to disappear without even telling me where she's gone. Sarah Anne and Francine are strange girls too, who live by routine. Never once have I seen them break from the schedule of their day. Not to mention, I've heard talk of blood seen in alleyways around these parts, and more regular folks going missing closer and closer to here. Your friend Matilda was close by here when she felt so strangely watched that one evening. I've seen parties of unusual people come to Mrs Northcotes before, real strange, and heard bad noises from across the way in all my time living here. Ephraim told me himself to- and I quote!- stop  _ snooping _ lest I get myself into trouble!" 

"Sounds like you should move ."

"I should." Alma stared at the finished line of hung laundry, her long braids blowing gently about her. Arthur already had a gut feeling she was right. He knew he'd say yes one way or another but- still, it didn't do to just jump into things on the basis of whims and gut feelings. That was the kind of tomfoolery that'd get you killed. So he watched and waited. "I'll pay handsomely. Will you help me, Mr…?"

"Abraham Morgan," Arthur replied, and gave her one serious look over. She didn't look like a liar. Alma Neall was a plain little woman in plain clothes, unspectacular and unmemorable. He felt a twinge of guilt for noticing. "I suppose I ought to." 

Alma clearly perked up, delight flooding through her features as she flapped her hands just barely in stifled excitement. "Yes! Thank you!"

"That Ephraim fella sounds awful suspicious. Suppose its prob'ly best I pay him a visit first, what'd'you think?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Every morning the maple leaves. Every morning another chapter in which the hero shifts / from one foot to another. / Every morning the same big and little words all spelling out 'desire', all spelling out / You will always be alone and then you will die.” (— Richard Siken, ‘Litany in which Certain Things are Crossed Out’.)


	7. eat of knowledge.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur was struck by the abrupt sense that something was wrong. There was no noise here, no lights, no buggies or idle folk walking by. He could hear himself breathing, and the unpleasant sounds of his own boots pushing through the muck—someone, something else, breathing behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warnings for violence, violent attack, elements of horror and southern gothicism, hanging by noose, animal death, and some relatively mild gore.

Charles Smith only had two goals; get more work, and get his mind off things. It didn't do anyone any good to dwell. The swamps smelled of- well, for lack of a better description, _ swamp _. The air was thick with water, all coagulated in a thin fog from the heat that rippled over the bayou. It clung to him from all sides, suppressive as the feeling of aimlessness that had settled into him. Though he knew he wouldn't shake off the heaviness of his newfound grief anytime soon, it did better to work and to exhaust his mind over other things than to just sit in it and stew. It still felt better to be out here in the dense undergrowth than it had felt dodging the still unreasonably angry Langstons for the past three days. He supposed there was nothing to be done, and rode onwards. 

"What'd you say your name was again, ma'am?" Charles asked the woman perched behind him on Taima. 

"Mrs Mary-Jane Lou, Mister." She settled her hands more firmly on his waist, holding tighter each time Taima made a wary pause in her trot at the sight of a passing gator in the waters, reminding him off what he came here for. "What's brought you out here to Lagras?"

"I heard of work in these parts. Helping control the gator population. Is that right?"

"Sure is. Y'know how to go about gator country at all?"

"I don't. Not really."

"Best learn fast, mister, or they'll be the ones controllin' _ you. _ The beasts ain't keen on guests." 

"I've heard. I'm looking to learn." 

"My husband's been workin' against those monsters long's he been on two feet. Ain't many willin' to stop in these parts for a lady lackin' a safe ride, you see, I appreciate you stoppin' to help. Maybe he could give you a lil' lesson as thanks." 

Charles smiled, humbled by the offer. He didn't expect nor want to get anything out of this- certainly wouldn't have accepted payment, but he wasn't one to pass on a freely offered learning opportunity. "Thank you, ma'am, I'd gladly take you up on that offer." 

They rode in silence for a moment before the woman spoke again.

"My horse Jenny was a good girl but _ sickly _, everybody told me not to trust her n'I didn't bother to listen none. My mistake. Sick ole horse went n'tipped right over. Still can't wrap my head well around it."

"Sorry to hear it, Mrs Lou."

"Thank you Mister. Ol'beast grown so troubled by her sickness I'd'nt've been real surprised to see her sprout horns n'fly by the end, weren't having none of anybody but myself, on account of me raisin' her from real little. Seems everybody these parts just droppin' dead, or disappearin'."

Charles waited for her to continue, realizing only after a silent moment that it'd require some prompting. "Disappearing? What do you mean by that, Mrs Lou?"

"I mean _ disappearin' _." 

"Taken, or just gone?"

"Either, could be either, y'see 'cause, it's all just us domestic ladies n'younger fellas, workin' in the big houses with'n those uppity bastards. We ain't get the same attention from the law when we go missin'. It don't matter none to nobody." 

"You know someone who's gone missin' then."

"Mmhm. Little lady Louisa, not so bad herself, Irish thing I think sourcin' from those shacks east the city. Worked not far from where my daughter's employed, uptown by the _ manors _. Bad business 'round those parts. Real bad."

Charles stared ahead as he slowly urged Taima onwards, ankles tight to her sides. Quiet. He cleared his throat.

"Maybe I could do something to help."

"How'd y'mean?"

"Could have a look 'round the area myself. I'm no stranger to people going missing. I'm a good tracker." 

She seemed to chew on the idea for a moment. Must've found no flaws or reasons to deny him, because in the next moment she was firmly patting his shoulder and replied, "That'd be a real blessin', Mister, it would. Come on back with me then and we'll talk, I'll tell you 'bout where you can find somethin' real strange to start on, somethin' _real_ strange." 

> °

Harpoons were harder to work with than he'd assumed them to be. The oppressive and unsettling environment of the swamps did little to deter his interest in seeing the deed to finish- he'd been in stranger places and seen far stranger things. The near constant distant growls of the reptiles and consistent blind drone of the cicadas eventually faded into the background, becoming no more than a feature of the setting, just a backdrop against which he sweat and worked until his eyes stung from exhaustion and head ached. Being strong and deft with his hands as he was, he'd quickly grown accustomed to the process of harpooning the gator they'd chosen to hunt, employing the combined use of whatever brute force and defined precision he could muster as a beginner; in the end he had mostly Mr Lou's efforts to thank for the gator who's large maw he now stood on. 

"Ain't half bad," Mr Lou declared, glancing up teasingly from where he was ensuring the gator was really dead. "For an amateur."

"Thank you." Charles nodded, humbled and perhaps even a little excited by the hunt. He wasn't one for trophy hunting- he found wastefulness and things killed just for some convoluted sense of glory to be disrespectful, more often than not just another way of compensating for some perceived weakness of self which needed to be proved wrong. But this wasn't a trophy hunt. Mr Lou had spend a considerable amount of time during their search explaining the horrors these beasts could commit, and the mistreatment they received by less considerate hunters. He took some comfort in knowing they hadn't wasted this particular alligators body or caused much undue suffering. Mrs Lou had also been looking forward to all the ways they could use the bounty of the hunt, through the selling of the skin and the use of the meat for several weeks worth of food; maybe even enough to share with neighbors in need of it. So, yes, Charles felt good about the hunt, better than he had about anything in quite some time. He offered Mr Lou a hand as the older man moved from his stooped position. 

"I can pick her up. Don't worry." 

"Thank you, son." He groaned as he stood, watching appraisingly as Charles moved to heft the giant creature over one shoulder. His knees creaked and spine twinged from the effort but he paid none of it any mind, clicking his tongue to the mildly wary Taima, who only approached him with hesitance. She flicked her tail to and fro, ears steep with anxiety. 

"You got a good horse there, y'do. What's her name?"

"Taima," Charles replied, carefully tying the creature up securely. 

"_ Taima, _" Mr Lou replied through the thick twang of his accent. "Hmm, pretty name." 

Once the animal was secured, he turned on his heel, wiping the dirt and blood off his hands the best he could. A hard, intense look was given around the perimeters of the swamp. It felt cramped here, crowded despite the abundance of untamed land; like anything could come crawling out of the darkness unannounced. 

"You're sure you ain't want no payment from us? We haven't got much but we ain't destitute."

"No, sir, thank you. This was a lesson. I appreciate the opportunity to learn."

"Have it your way. But just know you'd best accept when my wife offers y'to stay for dinner; she won't take no for an answer." 

Charles smiled. "_ When _ she offers?"

"Ain't no _ ifs _ about it. Y'kill't it, you get your own helpin' of it. Nothin' more than common decency."

"I guess I can't say no, if that's the case. I appreciate it." He clicked his tongue and pulled gently on Taima's bridle. 

Mr Lou was the first to break the silence. "Whereabouts do you live, son?"

"Mm, I travel, mostly."

"The road ain't idyllic for much more than a campfire song. Best get to gettin' n'find yourself someone nice to settle with. What's keepin' ya?"

Charles didn't quite know what to say; responding with the barest simplicity was often the best manner of polite avoidance, he knew. "The regular troubles." 

Mr Lou made no comment on that. He tipped his hat in mild acknowledgement. "I met my Mary-Jane so long ago now it feels near'n a lifetime. Feels like not a day we ain't spent together, just the two of us." 

"Mrs Lou mentioned you have a daughter."

"Yes, we do. Smart girl. Her names Francine. Taller'n either of us, probably wouldn't be too far off yourself." 

"She works in the city?"

"Yeah, doin' the regular work, sendin' us a share of her money despite we told her not to bother. She doesnt like her new station none, says there's sometin' off but even that don't deter her none. That girls stubborn as a mule."

"Heard of bad things going on there. Is she safe?"

"Safe as she can be. Refuses t'come back home, you see, says it just pay better out there, danger'n all. You heard of the attacks, then?"

"Mhm."

"Bad business. Awful, really. Seems everybody knows but ain't nobody who cares. I'm worried 'bout Francine, though. She hasn't written and didn't come down to visit when we was plannin' for her to."

"...Does she do that often?"

"No. No, she doesn't. Told you she's a smart girl, my Francine, always timely, real good at those sorts'a things. I'm worried. Don't tell my wife, but I'm worried."

Charles stared ahead as they made their way back to the Lou's cabin. He chewed on what he wanted to say until it'd long gone stale and instead, simply asked; "Do you or your wife know of any people or places in these parts where I might start asking questions about those disappearances?"

> °

The night was dark and the bayou, silent. 

Ephraim Ackley's house, if it could be called that at all, was a distasteful structure of water-logged, light blue painted wood, all sinking inwards on itself, sagging beneath some unseen weight. It was longer than it was wide, extending further onwards as he peered to either side of the thing. It didn't seem like a house, no, not at all, barely a building. It had all the necessary components of which a house or a building might consist, certainly; four walls and a roof, a floor that was not dirt, locks and keys and window-panes, shutters and even the strange and unseemly addition of a sickly yellow rocking chair on the porch. Inside he assumed there might be even more things to be expected of a house, like chairs and cans and buckets, labels and pictures, beds and rugs. Ephraim Ackley's house- which it must have been, because the eggshell blue and the red paneling of the windows was just right as it was rare- was hideous. 

Of all the items and pieces attached to it which should have made it into a normal residence, the culmination of all these things made it anything but. It gave the impression of a shack, though he would've preferred any shack he'd seen to this one. Charles couldn't imagine a soul wanting to live inside of it. Wanting to sleep there and to eat there, tasting the metal of the house in every sip of water and awakening each morning to the invasive scent of mold. There was another smell too, something sulfurous, rank, soured milk or rotten eggs. 

It only got worse once he stepped inside. After some considerable time spent knocking forcefully at the door to no avail, he'd quietly shoved his way inside, shotgun first. The smell was rancid and overpowering. A rat ran past, haggard, limping, squealing. He turned his face to the kitchen, only to quickly look away in disgust, breathing deeply through his mouth to try and overcome the desire to just _ leave _ . Again, he peered inside. The floor was stained an off-color brown, covered in hunks of something slimy, unidentifiable. The decomposing carcass of a cow- an _ entire _ cow- was strewn across the room- there was rotting food pouring out of the open icebox, chunks of the cow's head and what looked to be two legs stacked high on the counter, and worst of all in the corner, its abdomen against the wall. The ribs were cracked wide open, all the viscera within gone black and shriveled with age. How more animals hadn't found their way in here to scavenge at it, he couldn't fathom. Maybe they didn't like the smell either. A floorboard creaked beneath his boot. Charles pulled away, disgusted. 

The two bedrooms were barren. No beds, no cabinets, nothing. He'd been right to assume this house was unbearable to live in. Even this brief tour was draining him. There were unlabeled cans and jars full of strange things scattered all through the hallways, splatters of black and red and hunks of rancid flesh embedded in the floor. He felt the ever mounting instinct to flee, though curiosity yet pushed him further, and some part of him felt there may still be some key to this unpleasant mystery. He didn't bother to search the china cabinet and its shattered glass, or inspect the couch with it's broken leg, which had slumped forwards onto the floor. 

In the living room, just by the dining table, he saw the first hard evidence of any human touch. Written in elegant, swooping calligraphy and what looked to be charcoal, a phrase was scrawled on the wall. 

_ "It was thus revealed that Sigi had killed the thrall, having committed murder. And they called him a wolf in hallowed places, and he could no longer stay at home with his father.” Völsunga saga, chapter i _.

The new revelation did nothing but confuse him further. Charles stared. A wolf in hallowed places… having committed murder. What was a thrall, again? 

He looked around once more, this time seeking any more scraps of evidence about the ownership of this place, or whosoever may have been here last. There was a mostly shredded envelope to a telegraph resting on a side-table in the living room, its contents empty. On the outside, however, it clearly read _ To Ephraim Ackley _ . Signed-- _ Manon Northcote _. An address. He tucked it into the pocket of his shirt. Finally some real evidence.

Confounded, his eyes turned to the only door yet left unopened. Judging by the shape of the house he assumed it must have been the way out the back. Taking a deep breath, he pushed through.

The yard was barren and ugly. A thin fence surrounded the dry area, inhabited only by mud and dead patches of grass; how Ackley had managed to clear this part of the swamp so thoroughly and without the bayou plantlife coming in contact with the house or even yard at all, he had no clue. The earth was strangely textured, though, freshly moved and dug in, in repetitive patches interspersed by stretches of untouched grass. They were holes, he realized quickly, and deep ones. Charles swallowed thickly. There was a rusted shovel by the door. What looked to be eight, maybe nine squares of dug-up and covered earth were lined throughout the space. He stepped back warily. The stench of death, of rot and decay were distinct. There were claw marks in the dirt not far from where he stood, some human, some… some not. Not like any animal he'd seen before, and Charles Smith had seen plenty in his time. He stared blankly at his surroundings. He was standing in an unmarked graveyard.

Then a high, shrill cry rang out from the silence of the bayou.

> °

Arthur took one long, long look at a bundle of what looked to be human hands hung swinging from the branch of a willow tree and decided on the spot that Lakay was a horrible place. 

The air carried the dim scent of rot, though it was difficult at first to discern if it emanated off the human remains or the masses of plants that inhabited the bayou, stuck in their constant loop of death and rejuvenation. Arthur's boots squelched unpleasantly in the mud as he made to make some distance between himself and the casual horror he fully intended never to speak about; what else could he do? He wondered where Ephraim Ackley's cabin was, if it was anywhere close by at all, and considered the credibility of the directions he'd been given. 

He quickly moved towards Shoshanah, who looked about as skittish as ever. He didn't bother trying to discern what set her off; could easily relate to the general distress which the swamp might incite in any being unlucky or stupid enough to be in it after nightfall. Whatever noble drive or thickskulled and greedy desire had influenced to even step foot here now escaped him, leaving the distraught man standing, blank-faced, by the tree with human remains dangling from it and his jeans caked in mud up to the thighs. 

"What a fun goddamn night," he grumbled, and made his way into the dense underbrush of the swamp to search for Ephraim Ackley's house.

The thick mud clung to him, making his steps slow, deliberate, halting as he every so often had to regain his balance. The unnatural gait bothered him; it didn't feel right not to be able to run. Not that there was anything to be running from- an owl or some similar creature blinked and hooted at him from high above, something rustled in the moss- nothing harmful, nothing mean, just the creatures of the world going about their idle business. He tried to think of other things, on Tilly's smile upon seeing him and the way Mary-Beth had laughed when he teased. Arthur wondered how Charlotte was doing. She was smart, and utterly self-sufficient- he knew she was doing just fine. He missed her already.

Arthur thought on the trail he'd taken to come here, and the long path between Saint Denis and Lagras. Considered the weather of the past days and the depth and malleability of the mud. He'd likely left tracks, and _ lots _ of them, deep and obvious and undeniably his were those tracking him any good at the deed. He considered the likelihood of someone following or finding him out here. Whether it was simply paranoia or just a particularly sharp day for his gut instincts, he wasn't sure yet. He hoped he wouldn't have to find out. 

He'd found Saint Denis to be a terribly unsettling place in and of itself, too populated and dense. It left him feeling claustrophobic, like an animal pacing in a cage. Unfortunately, the open wilderness wasn't any better. Arthur was struck by the abrupt sense that something was wrong. There was no noise here, no lights, no buggies or idle folk walking by. He could hear himself breathing, and the unpleasant sounds of his own boots pushing through the muck—someone, something else, breathing behind him. One hand moved cautiously to his belt. He itched. Teeth bared, the knife clenched tightly in his hands he whirled as best he could stuck in place in the mud like he was, and—

No one. There was nobody there waiting for him to turn or to take another step, no glowing red eyes, no redneck with a gun or lawman come to take him. His mouth went dry. He listened to the silence and the idle hum of the bayou, trying hard to parse if there were any sounds hiding behind it, the idle shift of clothes or the click of a gun, perhaps the heavy breathing of an assailant, delighted and enticed by the fact that they'd come so close undetected. _ Nothing _. Arthur could feel the nervous sweat drenching the back of his shirt, and the way his own skin felt too tight, his every movement too loud. There was nothing at all but blackness, and the smell of decay. He waited for a few more seconds and then, reluctantly satisfied with the notion that whoever or whatever it was had simply been a figment of his overactive imagination or some animal which had slunk off into the dark, began to walk.

Too soon. He felt the overwhelming presence again, this time much too close for comfort, distinct and yet abstract as the fear of seeing a shadow in the corner of his dark room at night, back when he was a child. Arthur swallowed thickly, tightly grasping the hilt of his hunting knife but before he could turn again—

Two firm hands grabbed him. There was a flurry of motion in the blackness and the sound of his knife piercing flesh, then the feeling of it being torn right out of his grip. He was tugged off balance and swayed in place, trying hard not to fall until the attacker grabbed him bodily and spun him, tugging him to a standing position. One arm held his back to the chest of the assailant, the free hand clutching his throat. Arthur, of course, yelled, kicking back and up until his spurs dug into the meaty thigh of whoever held him, forcing a cry of pain and a full body flinch out of it. The being screeched, high-pitched and painful. Unfortunately, it did nothing in the end but make it tighten its grip to the point where Arthur could scarcely breathe, weakly kicking his legs as he was quite literally lifted off of the ground. Once more he tried to cut the man's ankle, calf, anything he could possibly reach with his spur or the heel of his boot- but then there was another person or being before him. 

One of the night folk. A woman.

A woman caked in mud so thick he couldn't tell flesh from filth, her hair gone mad in all directions, gesticulating wildly at him. Something about her didn't seem human, be it the condition of her appearance and the dim shine of her pure white eyes or the animalistic groan of her voice. He didn't know what to do but to try and throw his head forward for a headbutt, forgetting, for an instant, that he didn't have such liberty to move. She procured a machete, holding it firmly to his throat. The man behind him took advantage of his momentary distraction to tie Arthur's hands together behind his back. 

The woman gurgled at him. Growled, almost, deep and low in her throat. She gestured to the treeline, and seemed to be speaking through her gestures as well as her hands because suddenly the simply gigantic being holding him in the air tugged him, stock still under the threat of the machete, back through the muck and mud, at times being bodily lifted over stumps as they went. They made it back to the tree, where she aimed the rock held in her free hand. He didn't like to think what that rock might be used for. He could hear the jingle of the bells hung from the tree, the clank of the bones and though he couldn't hear or see it he thought of the bundle of human hands strung from there. His stomach churned.

Arthur's mind was reeling. Shoshanah had run off to god knows where, good for her, and he was alone and at the mercy of the Night Folk. They might even remember him, he thought, from the time he had chased them off that old man's property. The brute behind him set him on his feet again, and released his grip on his throat only to wind a noose around it.

Oh, _ fuck _.

Now the fight really began. Machete or not, Arthur fumbled wildly with his hands, trying to get even one loose from the iron grip of the rope which held them in place- if only he could reach his revolver, his knife, anything- to no avail. His breath caught in his throat and the cold, definitive chill of terror traveled in repetitive shockwaves from the back of his eyes and down his spine, fingertips turning numb and head pulsing, eyes wide and wild, unable to truly focus on anything through the haze. A thick fog had settled over the Bayou earlier, giving the impression of the entire swamp being sunk into knee-deep grey, swirling water. The woman irreverently threw the noosed rope over the branch while Arthur and the man struggled behind her, both letting out animalistic grunts and cries and roars until the man stuck a hand over his mouth to suppress it, which, of course, Arthur bit. 

The taste of blood- all copper and sting, hot and wet and followed by the distinctly earthy, filthy taste of the man's skin- it filled his mouth 'til he felt near to gagging. Arthur spat and desperately tried to throw himself out of the larger man's grip but the effort proved fruitless the moment the woman got involved, her own strength over him considerable.

The rope tightened on his throat. The man held him by the legs while she fastened it once more to be sure. Arthur had always believed he'd die by a noose; he just hadn't anticipated that the Night Folk would be the ones to tie the rope.

He breathed in once, twice, and was robbed of the third. The rope went taut and so did his throat, skin pulled tight in screaming pain and he couldn't do anything but scramble desperately, throat burned raw, legs thrashing and kicking, his ears filled with white noise like the crash of the sea, trying in any way he could to swing up or to wrangle his hands back and up but he couldn't, he couldn't, couldn't breathe or see or- 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Strange human passions, subject to such excesses and to such revulsions!  
(- A Story of a Weir-Wolf by Catherine Crowe.)


	8. you long for sight and see nothing.

Air filled his lungs in a gust so cool and full of relief that it hurt. 

Strong arms clutched his legs, holding him up and towards the branch so the rope dangled loosely beside his face like a vine, or perhaps a snake. Arthur still couldn't quite see straight, squinting up at the sky, the treeline, and scanning the ground trying to identify which masses there were the bodies of his attackers and which were simply mounds of moss or stumps of trees. He couldn't tell. It practically hurt to be conscious. 

There was a voice, then, one which had perhaps been speaking for the entirety of this encounter, but he certainly couldn't be the judge of that. He understood only miscellaneous garble. Then, again, louder and more clearly- "Your hands are untied, Arthur. I know. I know. It's alright." 

Was he crying?

"You have to reach up and cut the rope. I can't from here, I'm sorry." Only when he was about to open his mouth and try to rasp out a reply did he become aware of the weight of a pocketknife in his hand, familiar and comforting. He obliged, blindly flicking the blade to and fro over his head until it struck right and they both nearly tumbled from the way he swung free. He was manipulated into hanging limply over the strangers shoulder and then ever-so-slowly lowered onto his feet, uneasy as a newborn foal and as disoriented as one too. He clung to his saviour's shirt, breathing in long, hard gusts, savoring the taste of air despite the smell of blood and decay and dead meat that permeated the area. He clung as hard as his hands could grip and pressed his forehead to the unidentified shoulder, uncaring of shame or embarrassment while still under the heady influence of the violent brush with death. 

"Arthur?" The voice asked, and he was suddenly vividly reminded of and tugged back into himself, his being, recalling the normal human notion that a stranger shouldn't know one's name, and all the other human notions that came along with it such as the instinct to make distance between himself and the man, stepping back swiftly. Too swiftly for his own good, really, proven by the way he swayed ominously in the direction of the ground and was only stabilized by the quick reflexes of Charles Smith himself.

_ Charles Smith _. 

Had his heart not already been beating so fast it hurt, it surely would have fluttered and rushed at the sight. His mouth went dry, dryer than it already had been, throat clicking audibly as he swallowed. The world felt suddenly clean of horrors, and much brighter than the pitch black bayou allowed most to imagine. His world shrunk inwards to enclose them in this moment. He trembled. "Charles? That's you?"

"In the flesh."

"I ain't-" he had to violently clear his throat, the cough doubling him over. He righted himself as fast as he could. "I ain't dead?" 

"I thought you already were, until just now." 

"Seems you caught me just in time." Another violent cough wracked his body, back aching from the intensity of it. He shook his head. How ridiculous that this wasn't even the first time Charles Smith had saved him from the noose. He let out a wheezy chuckle. "Should've let me hang."

"I'm a fool, I know." Charles said, and didn't sound half as light-hearted as he had the last time they'd had this conversation. He stared at him. “The beard is new.”

Arthur croaked, “And the hair.”

“And the hair.” Silence. Charles reached out for him, grabbed his hand in a long, lingering touch, then couldn’t help it anymore, pulling him into his arms in a tight embrace. Arthur put his face close to his neck, breathing in the smell of him, trying to suppress the overwhelming feelings which all threatened to bubble up at once. He smelled familiar- like creosote and firesmoke. Coal. The city, the swamps. He felt like he could cry. His throat burned.

Arthur finally pulled back and took a second to look at Charles, to really _ look _ at him and try once more to read the expression there, try to understand what was going on behind that thickly guarded barrier he called a face. All he could find were bruises, dark and purple and blotching his left cheekbone, and the distinct haggard look of a man worn by grief and exhaustion. His face, though it may have read neutral to anyone else, was clearly distraught, just as overwhelmed as he was. "I don't understand, Arthur." 

"Welcome to the- to the club, Mr Smith," Arthur tried to tease, hoping to wipe that deep look of confusion and sorrow off his face. It didn't work. He tried for something softer. "I'll tell you later, Charles, promise, and you'll tell me too. We oughta be goin' now, t'anywhere but here."

"We do," Charles said, and gently reached forward to put one arm around Arthur, supporting him as they moved to walk away from the scene. He heard him whistle and click and weakly tried to do the same, tongue and throat stalling, failing him as he did so. "Is that black Thoroughbred yours?" Charles asked, and he didn't have the energy to answer. He turned quickly to crouch. Vomited blood, and didn't think twice of it. Charles waited, held his hair, and quietly led him onwards.

They made it to the two horses just in time for the adrenaline to run clean out. Limp as a ragdoll, Arthur slung himself over Shoshanah's back, slipping in and out of consciousness just enough to hold on. He didn't know where they were going but he didn't care in the least. So long as Charles was by his side, he felt safe.

Too exhausted to repress his honesty, Arthur slurred out only one thing before he succumbed to the dead weight of exhaustion. 

"Missed you, Charles. Missed you."

> °

Arthur woke blearily, the smell of cooked eggs and glaring sunlight slanting over his face pulling him into consciousness. He groaned. Flexed one hand, then the other, and then there were hands on his throat, the grip tight, he couldn't breathe he couldn't-

His hands flew to his neck and he blinked once more, _ hard _, forcefully sitting up to cough, and cough, and cough. He wasn't being strangled. He was fine. His hands were still up beneath his jaw, grip loose, trembling.

"Arthur?" A soft voice spoke. "Arthur. You good?"

He scooted into a sitting position. He was on a bedroll on the floor, and Charles was halfway to standing, kneeling awkwardly against the chair by the table with one leg and standing on the other, as though he'd intended to rush over to him before. He slowly slid back down to sit once he saw Arthur's hands relax.

"Yeah. Yeah, 'm fine, thanks." Arthur's voice was hoarse; he was nowhere near fine, really. His right ear ached something terrible, his neck taut and stiff. His tongue felt too big for his own mouth. Lightheadedness made his vision blurry and movements stiff, halting, abrupt. It took more time than it ought to have for him to scoot into a crouch and then stand, back cracking, wrists clicking and neck sore as anything. 

"Sure," Charles replied, but the intended sarcasm was undermined by genuine concern. Disbelief. Arthur gestured vaguely that he stay sitting, preemptively resisting all offers of assistance. He heaved himself into the chair across from him, only now fully processing the fact that they were in a shabby, quaint little cabin. Before he could ask, Charles interjected. "This cabin belongs to some nice folk who helped me before. The Lou's."

Arthur didn't have much the voice to answer. Charles slid a plate of eggs in his direction, and Arthur's own tin cup full of water, which he now acknowledged as missing from his belt. 

"Mrs Lou said I was welcome back anytime. Neither of us expected I'd take her up on it so soon." 

Arthur picked up the fork, pushing warily at the eggs.

Charles smiled. "Don't like my cooking anymore?"

He liked it plenty, only… his throat hurt to swallow, his head still throbbing. He carefully sipped water, then took one tentative, slow bite at a time. 

"Mr Lou's out doing work. Don't know where the Mrs went, but she said she wouldn't be back 'til late, and we were alright to stay a bit." He quietly finished his own breakfast, avoiding looking Arthur in the eyes. "We should probably leave soon. Don't want to impose."

"Mm." 

They ate in relative silence, Arthur too exhausted to conjure up any conversational topics. Curiosity itched at him, however- where had Charles been all this time? Did he know any more of the gangs whereabouts than the girls did? Why had he been in the swamps, so close by? He glanced at the man in question. Charles was staring at him. He set down his fork. A beat. "Come here," Charles said, and cautiously reached out to touch his neck. 

Arthur flinched away. “What’re you- what’re you doin?” 

“I’m not gonna hurt you.” He pulled back, hands calmly held out, palms turned upwards. 

“I know that. But…” 

“I just want to have a look at the rope marks. Does it hurt?”

Of course it hurt, it hurt worse than anything he’d felt since he was hunched over in Charlotte’s guest bed midwinter, gasping for air that wouldn’t come. “It’s alright," he said instead, and didn't look him in the eye when he touched him, gently running a finger across the dark purple bruising which encircled his flesh. "Hm."

He couldn't take the _ intimacy _ of the action, couldn't tell why it made him twitch and tremble like it did. If such a simple, innocent touch could reduce him to such a state...

Arthur pulled away. "Doesn't look like there'll be permanent damage. Might be able to come up with some ointment for the pain. You've got a cut on the left side here, though. Should wash it." 

He nodded meekly, pressing against the spot in question. Charles respectfully folded his hands on the table in front of him, but didn't look away. Arthur hadn't been looked at with such intensity in a long time. He squirmed uneasily beneath the unfamiliar attention. "Quit it.” 

“Quit what?” 

“Gawkin' at me like you are."

“Can’t help it. Most people tend to stare a little when they see a ghost.”

Arthur watched him for a moment, Charles’ arms crossed on the table before him, his hair loose, the swamp air cloying and suppressive. He didn't know what to say. It came out more gently than he meant for it to; “You really thought I was dead.” 

“We _ all _ did." Charles deflected. Arthur knew the girls all thought him dead. Knew most everyone did, deep down, knew it at the heart of his soul but he hadn’t really considered that not everyone would be so easily able to bounce back as Mary-Beth and Tilly- that it might be much harder for Charles. He couldn’t fathom why, but he supposed he'd been spoiled by all the relatively mild reactions thus far. 

“I buried you." 

What?

Arthur felt stricken. He swallowed thickly, brows furrowed. “What do you mean?” 

“I mean, I buried you. I made you a grave. A headstone.” Charles' expression was more reserved, now, drawing inwards on himself. Cowering, almost, though he'd never consider the man feeble enough to apply such a term. 

“You went back." 

“I did. Buried Susan too.” 

“But… there weren’t no-” He didn't know how to say it without being callous. What was a burial without a corpse? “...I wasn’t there.” 

“I know. It still felt wrong to just.. _leave_.”

It was rare that he heard Charles sound so unsure of himself. The man possessed a great affinity for _ caution _, forethought, and careful consideration. He never sounded wary because he never spoke before he was sure. He never sounded frightened because he always took the time to rationalize a situation before reacting. Arthur had never met a man with such a strange skill for preparation, who held expectations for nothing and seemed to live a very deliberate life, every step taken and word spoken well thought out, inwardly debated, assumably gone over and over to the point where one couldn't possibly try to prove him wrong because he'd already had this discussion inwardly within himself- and already knew the outcome. 

"Thank you." Arthur said, because what else was there to say? He felt humbled, surprised that someone would even _ think _ to place a monument to the disgrace of his life. Charles nodded and stood, putting the plates back where they belonged, scrubbing the dishes, filling a bowl with some water. Arthur had never imagined it was even possible for Charles to be caught by surprise, but here it was; plain-faced, distraught lack of preparation. Confusion. Fear. Grief, maybe, lived again in the wake of a life upturned and previous undeniable truths now shaken out and proven wrong. He couldn't blame him for it. Didn't know how to approach it at all, but he couldn't blame him.

He came back to sit across from him with the bowl and his handkerchief in hand. "Like I said before, you should clean that cut."

"This ain't the first time I've had somethin' like this, Charles."

"It’s a shame it happened at all." 

"Why's it bother you so much?" 

"Because you're hurt. Your eyes are so bloodshot, you're all… bruised.” Charles looked more concerned than he’d seen him in a very long time. He gestured insistently. “'Course I'm worried.

Arthur took the handkerchief, dipping it into the water. "This is normal for me. Nothin' new."

"Violence isn't normal. Being hurt isn't normal." Charles sat, and handed him the bar of lye soap he kept wrapped in his pouch. He obligingly took it, scrubbing idly at the cut.

"In our line of work it is."

"Doesn't have to be our line of work anymore. It's not mine." He paused to stare at him. "It hasn't been for a long while." 

"Your words say'n one thing but that bruise 'neath your eye says another." He didn't say it to be mean. Genuine concern swelled up in him as he stopped in attending to his own injury, reaching out with his dry hand as if to stroke the bruised cheek. He halted mid-air, reluctantly pulling back into himself. Arthur lived a life controlled by certain barriers, borders he wouldn't cross.

Charles looked between his eyes and back down to his retracted hand, now resting on his thigh. He sighed and moved to stand. "Once you're done cleaning that, we ought to get going."

> °

"A whole cow?"

"A whole cow. Well, half eaten, but close to whole."

"That's just… now that's just _ nasty _." 

"Haven't encountered anything particularly nice 'round these parts besides the people." Charles glanced at Arthur, then, recalling last night, and corrected himself; "well, _ most _ of the people." 

"Don't think the night folk were people, really."

"How come?"

"They had these- these completely white eyes. Didn't you see? 'N the way they spoke…"

Charles thought about how the man had looked when he ran away. Cast a glance at his boot and the unfortunate red stain now spattered over it. "I was a bit busy chasing them off." 

"Hmh." 

“I still don’t get what you said was on the wall. Some kinda quote?” 

“A book, for sure.”

“Funny that the damn words on the wall’re somehow stranger than- well, all the damn rest of the house.”

“I’d barely call it a house.”

“Sounds like a shithole.”

“You're not wrong.”

“Why y’think Ephraim lives there? How’d y’know that’s really his house and it ain’t just some local rumors?”

Charles anticipated the question, already pulling out the fragile telegraph envelope he’d kept tucked into his shirt pocket. _ To Ephraim Ackley, _ from _ Manon Northcote _\- with a Saint Denis address. He held it out to Arthur, who gripped onto Shoshanah’s saddle as he leaned over to read it. 

“What’s the telegraph say?”

“Nothing. It was empty when I found it.”

“Huh.”

“Yeah.” 

"That's the fella and his boss I was thinkin' to have a look into, myself."

"Thought you were just looking for the butler's house."

"Why would I? Just had a tip he was employed with her, best tip I could get. This girl Alma in the city paid me well enough to come looking."

"How well?" He asked, and cast a sidelong look. Not judging, only wondering how much Arthur had really changed.

Arthur chewed on his lip. "Weren't much. She wouldn't let me leave less'n she paid me somethin'."

"_ How _ well?" He asked again, because he had he felt some right to know, considering their apparent shared involvement in this situation.

"Three dollars." The man looked damn near haunted to have said it, though realistically the cost wasn't much. At least it seemed a low price now that he'd seen the kind of place Ephraim Ackley's house was; he almost wished he'd gotten some kind of compensation for even stepping foot in the damn thing, even so meagre as three dollars. He shrugged.

"Let's look into it. Seems like his house isn't lived in any longer, if it ever was. The next biggest clue is this... _ Mrs _ . _ Northcote _ herself."

Charles considered their options for a moment, and all the factors which had lead to their ultimate meeting. "Do you know where to find this Alma again?"

"Sure do."

"Then, let's." 

All unspoken words and unshared anxieties fell to the wayside as they rode, replaced instead by the old and comforting familiarity the two of them so easily fell into. Their knees brushed from time to time as they rode on narrow roads, their eyes trained ahead but for well-noticed side cast glances and the occasional quip or comment on the strange and ominous beauty of the swamp, and all things which lived in it.

> °

“Can you see?” 

“Yeah,” Arthur said, and twisted the lens of the binoculars to have a closer look. “It’s real busy.”

"It's early. Shouldn't be, just yet."

Alma chimed in; "Oh, those snobs are always showing up much too early for their own good! Wouldn't do for their _ reputation _ to be tardy, you know." 

"Sure," Arthur spoke, still trying to catch any details of the house he could. "There's a way out back, though ain't much along the left side'ere, at least not from this vantage point."

Charles nodded. "What time should we leave, then? We're all dressed, only I'm not sure if we'll do better to come around when the crowds do." 

"I'd say when the next carriage comes down you two ought to go by foot up on to the house. Slip in with the whole pack of folks, shouldn't be much longer now. Speaking of!" 

He threw a look over his shoulder, pausing in silence at the sight of what she held. Two masks, both white and made to cover the face, less ornate than most but still decked in very fine silver lining along the eyes and bridge of her nose. Alma's face was awfully enthusiastic, hair coming loose from it's bun in all directions, the costume articles dangling cheerily from each hand. "Come on now! Try it for size." 

They both knew what they were getting into the moment she'd passed them the stolen invitations, as well as seen the sort of wardrobes the folks sidling up to the Northcote estate wore. Alma looked just a _ little _ too excited for someone who had just risked her position- he assumed sneaking strangers into the attic of your bosses home to spy on the neighbors didn't bode well for continued employment. Then again, she was apparently confidently anticipating the liberation of her closest friend; she'd probably have done anything with cheer in that moment if it'd been conducive to the rescue of Louisa and the other servant girls, and the solving of the mystery. "Alright," he said, and took them both, handing one to Arthur. He pulled his own on.

"How do I look?" Arthur asked, and looked pretty stupid. 

Charles smiled and tapped the cheek of the man's mask. "Like a real prime article."

The other man scoffed; they quickly got a hold of themselves, though, noting the way Alma awkwardly shifted from one foot to another as she watched them banter. "Uhm- did you, did you see anything else out there, Mister?"

"Nothin' much you didn't already know. Saw Ephraim, I think, looked busy as all getup. Couple folks all fine and dressed to the nines."

"It's all pomp and circumstance with that woman." 

"Looked like she'd gotten two new maid girls judging by the uniforms. Sure those weren't, ah, Sarah Anne and Francine?" 

"No- of course not. They don't look anything like either of them, even from this distance."

"Huh." Arthur quietly tucked his binoculars away. 

He knew that expression. Contemplative, uneasy; something obviously wasn't right here, and he could feel it too. 

"I think maybe it's time you two get to getting. Don't take those masks off- midnights when they'll be doing the revealing, just find what you can and get out before then."

"Don't make it sound so easy," Charles huffed, groaning as he moved to stand up from kneeling on the attic floor. 

> °

The letter of invitation was ornate. _ To the esteemed Mr. Monroe and his partner of business Mr. Gideon _ … the edges were lined with gold paper, the handwriting printed in great swooping cursive which the two of them both had to squint to read clearly. "How'd her _ friend _ know to get these? How'd she not get caught?" 

"If_ I_ knew, _you'd_ know, Charles." 

Alma had credited the pickpocketing skills of invisible women and the lazy forgetfulness of wealthy men for the efficiency of this particular theft. He reckoned she wasn't lying, what from all the risk she'd gone to to assist their search, not to mention the stealing, paying off another maid girl for stolen invitations- she was bold as she was boisterous, that was for sure. He still wasn't entirely convinced of the plan's effectiveness. "Are you sure about this?"

"Sure as I am of anything, Charles, which ain't much." He glanced back at him. "Less'n you've changed your mind, of course."

"No- no. I just…" Charles sighed. He didn't like getting tangled up in situations they couldn't plan for. "Don't know how they won't recognize us." 

"You heard the girl. Said they weren't none too close with Mrs. Northcote, these two, just acquaintances she met once or not at all."

"I know. Only.. we don't exactly _ look _ the part." Charles gestured broadly to them both. 

"The hell do you mean? I think I look pretty swell in this here suit." With the mask strapped to the top of his head, he had the freedom to wink. Charles had to try hard not to look away like some goddamn schoolgirl- he was_ entirely_ taken by his silly charm, much to his own chagrin. "A real gentleman, myself."

"Uh-huh."

Then, Arthur leaned in only the tiniest bit closer. "You don't look too bad yourself, neither, Mr.. _Gideon _." 

He tensed up when the shorter man reached for him, grabbing Charles' still undone tie. Hoped he didn't notice the mild flinch. Arthur popped up his collar for him, tying the black tie with smooth, experienced efficiency- though he seemed to be taking his sweet time, at least considering the constraints they were under at the moment. Charles cleared his throat and tried for a bold tease. "Do this often?"

"Only for the fellas who ask nicely."

They both chuckled. He lingered for a moment, not quite done. Charles wanted nothing more than to kiss him, in that moment. It felt right, and timely; he wondered why he stopped himself. Maybe it wasn't him at all; maybe it was the gentle hand on his cravat and the subtle fear that shone, unspoken, in the barely-noticeable anxious tremble of Arthur's smile. 

"Where'd you learn how to do this?"

"Hosea taught me." He replied, and Arthur looked contemplative. He suddenly wished that, in their day back in Saint Denis, they hadn't been so caught up in hunting for Alma's telegraphed request of formal attire and sneaking around the property. He still had so many questions to ask.

"He used to tie mine, and Dutch's as well as John's, when we could get the kid to quit behavin' like a rabid raccoon n'just hold still a minute." Arthur patted him just once when finished, palm pressing warmly against the space where his neck met his shoulder. Charles was unusually quiet then, even more so than usual. Arthur slid his mask down over his face, giving a disarming smile just before it covered him entirely. "Well, what're we waitin' for?" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I hope it's love. I'm trying really hard to make it love." - Richard Siken.


	9. better than my dog.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And he looked at the werewolf as she trembled and sat hunched in the corner, himself with a gun in one hand and all the power to kill- and Charles couldn't do it. He couldn't do it, because he looked at her and he didn't see some mad dog, some half-monster pulled taut between the constraints of human physicality and animal. He saw shame, and liberation, and a body that could be redefined. He saw a scared young woman, someone who could still be spared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for mentions of blood, gore, violence, body horror, gun fights, etc. vague references to cannibalism. time for the scary chapter!

Charles didn't know what he expected the lady of the manor to look like, but it wasn't quite this. From all of Alma's name-calling, he'd assumed pretty damn easily that she must've been at least half the 'old hag' the girl claimed she was. After being let in by the deeply unfriendly butler, Mr. Ephraim Ackley, they had scoured the rooms for an old woman, bent-backed and withered. What they got was _ her _.

Manon Northcote was an auspicious, sanctimonious woman, evidently just as embittered and prideful as all the servant girls had described her to be. She was tall, taller than the both of them, dressed in fine fabrics that Charles wouldn't even try to put a name to. She was old, most certainly, though he couldn't quite put an age to her; her face was wrinkled and hair white-gray, but her every movement was youthful, quick, intentional. She peered down the bridge of her bespectacled button nose at the two dirty, destitute cowboys hiding half-heartedly behind their masks and said only, "I apologize for not introducing myself earlier, but I had assumed you might recognize _ me _ before I, _ you _…. I'm Manon Northcote." 

Neither of them knew what to say. Charles cleared his throat, about to try for a placating response when Arthur pressed his hip into his side, evidently taking the lead.

"Well, I must be blind as a bat, Mrs. Northcote, to not have recognized your loveliness from down the _ street _ let'lone in your home, here." 

… Wow. He was really laying it on thick today- Charles had to try not to laugh at the way she sniffed disdainfully, nodding. "Indeed, you must be. Magnus Monroe, if I'm not mistaken?"

"You a-aren't, ma'am. You've got a - uh, a truly beautiful home, if I might add." 

"I know." Mrs. Northcote took a sip of champagne that turned into more of a greedy gulp, head tipping back. There was color in her cheeks when she turned her harsh gaze on him, next. "I'm afraid I've not yet met your business partner here face to face, woe as I am to admit such impropriety."

Charles snapped to attention at the cue, stepping forward slightly to respectfully take her hand, bowing his head just the barest inch. His suit itched. She stank of lime, cologne, and wet dog. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Northcote."

"Elijah Gideon, was it?" 

"Mhm. Glad I could make it." 

"As am I," she replied and stepped just an inch too close, her green eyes looking him up and down with blatant mirth. She grinned. The wrinkles around her eyes tightened and then she was gone- spinning on one heel and back to the busy household full of over enthusiastic attendees, all dressed to the nines and wild as unsupervised children. _ Mr _ . _ Gideon _, he thought, and tried the name on for size in his mind. He liked his own much better. Still, there was a bit of a thrill to the masquerade.

The crowds of folk around them were raucous and wild, unruly, rejoicing in the decadence of all that which wealth could afford. Blue satin couches and emerald green curtains framed the bustling crowds of pearl draped women and men with velveteen jackets, all loudly gossiping. If he wasn't mistaken, someone in the sitting room was singing, the sound echoing through the thin, floral wallpaper bedecked walls. Someone clapped and cheered; someone else made a toast, burping unreasonably loud right in the middle of her introduction. There couldn’t have been more than twenty or thirty guests altogether, but the busy speed with which they moved made a much more crowded impression. 

Champagne was popped open and spilled over the dark wood floors, pouring between fingertips clad in smooth rings and fat, glimmering rubies. Charles had lived in Saint Denis for quite some time, but he had never _ seen _ so much disgusting flaunting of wealth in one room before. They reveled in their excess. The air was thick with smoke and the overwhelming scent of dozens of colognes and perfumes. A man in a ridiculously tall tophat almost tripped over himself on his way to the buffet of food, grabbing rudely onto Charles' arm for support before wordlessly stumbling away without so much as a 'sorry'. 

"I hate this," Arthur muttered close to his side. He nodded. 

The buffet was arguably one of the more offensive sights of the night. One end was stacked high with candies, sugary sweet, glazed and glistening in the sickly chandelier light; the other, more ominous and ugly. There lay an enormous roasted pig in the middle of the table, an apple in its mouth, its ribs cracked open and full of plates of ornately displayed spears of pork. It still had its eyes, oozing, blank, blackened. 

On the other end of the table were trays upon trays of beef, pork, rabbit, and any and all sorts of meat that even he struggled to identify- roasted and grilled or halfway raw, steaks fat with blood, the hearts and brains and meat of all assortments of creatures laid out like one would a still life for a painting. 

A young lady in an ostentatious gown walked to the buffet, gingerly removed and latched her white satin gloves into her pearl-studded clutch, and proceeded to lift a bloody, dripping steak up and onto a plate which she didn't hesitate for a moment to dig into. Seeing the manner with which she ate it, he thought she may as well not have used a fork at all, the plate lifted high and close to her mouth as she shoveled the hunk of bloodied, nearly-raw flesh into her mouth bite after greedy bite, slurping, smiling, juice dribbling unpleasantly down her powdered chin. Arthur and Charles grimaced.

She must have been friends with the other woman who came up to her, judging by the way they giggled and waved, the other one leaning in to whisper something to her. Must’ve been awfully funny; she spewed spittle and little chunks of flying meat as she laughed hysterically, head thrown back, shaking with full-body laughter but still nowhere near dropping the fragile plate she held in her iron grip. 

"My god," Arthur whispered, “we’re at a party full’a crazy folk.” 

“You might be right.” 

They hung around the sitting room for nearly half an hour before anything even vaguely of interest occurred- the crowd, through strange and noisy in their clashing conundrums of high-society gossip, didn't necessarily offer the most useful snippets of conversation to overhear. There was little of note to be noticed, besides perhaps for the entire crowds strange enthusiasm about 'what was to come' and how much more entertaining the party was intended to get by sundown. Neither he nor Arthur could figure what was meant by that, though, and at some point stopped trying. 

The attendees had slipped into a bit of dancing while Arthur and he pressed up uncomfortably against the back wall, trying at any cost to avoid being looped in. 

He glanced at Arthur in his periphery, surprised to see the corners of his eyes crinkled in a smile as he watched the people dance. There was something pretty to it, the rhythmic swaying, the dashing smiles and swishing fabric- tempting, really. Not that there was anyone in the room he'd like to dance with, at least not without social scandal. This wasn't a cowboy's dance hall where he could just tie a sash around his waist and dance with any man he pleased. He couldn't dance with Arthur even on the off chance he accepted an offer.

The dance went on without them.

Two men got a little too close for comfort, one dancing with a young lady and the other trotting up with some incoherent accusation muffled beneath the drum of the music.

"Excuse me?" 

The man in question paused mid-step, twisting to glare at whosoever had so rudely interrupted his and the lady's moment. "_ Yes? _"

"I don't believe you're Mr. Stewart."

"No… I don't believe I am." They stared- in nearly menacing proximity to one another, like two feathered birds showing off their plumage- neither surrendered. "May I ask why you care to know?"

"Because, if _ not _... then you're not the one written on the lady's dance card."

Charles blinked. He'd wondered what those little cards handed out at the beginning of the party were- and why he and Arthur had gotten such strange looks to have turned them down. 

The supposed Mr. Stewart punched the other man in the face with a resounding thud. 

The music did not cut out, but the bustling activity of the small crowd did come to a screeching halt; all eyes turned on the two and they were quickly obscured from the two cowboy's view as they circled inwards, all wide-eyed and unsettlingly giddy to witness as more blows were exchanged between the two hollering men. It seemed this party wasn't all that different from a saloon after all. Considering all the touchiness and the invasive, thinly-veiled aggressive enthusiasm of the guests, he wasn’t so surprised.

Arthur tugged insistently on his jacket just then, urging him back and further into the house. Between the raucous clanging of the obnoxious jazz blasting over the party, and hollering and cheering of the crowd, Charles didn't exactly figure they'd be missed. From the sound of it, other folk were starting to argue as well, and loudly so. How a gaggle of two dozen rich folk could encite such chaos- and under such a thin veneer of finery- he had no clue. 

Only concern was the employees- most especially the butler, seeing as he didn't have quite the best impression of the man just yet. Would much have preferred not to meet him at _ all _, much less in some darkened old hallway, caught red handed in the act of snooping around Miss Northcote's business.

“This way,” Arthur said, pulling him behind him down a dark hall. “Reckon the servants quarters should be off this way.”

“Okay.”

He wasn’t wrong; they came upon a door at the end of the hall, red as the walls but otherwise unadorned, blending into the rest of the space. It smelled dimly of smoke and roasted meat. Quietly, Arthur eased the door open, Charles casting a quick glance over his shoulder to ensure nobody saw. “All clear,” he reassured, and they both stepped into the kitchen one at a time.

“There should be an office somewhere in this place,” Charles began, scanning the three doors in the room, all leading various directions throughout the house. The kitchen smelled powerfully of food and oil, though the oven was quickly going cold. Something about the smell of the roasting meat was off, unidentifiable. He’d never smelled anything like it before. 

Arthur glanced around. The maids and the butler must have been out attending to the parlor guests elsewhere; the clock was ticking. It really was ticking, actually, high up on the wall- Charles could tell by Arthur’s taut stature that he wasn’t feeling too good about this plan. “What’s wrong, Arthur?”

“We’re gonna get caught back here. Could just leave now and be done with it, you know- there’s _ other _work.”

“No,” Charles replied, because he had already firmly set his mind to this plan and there was no going back from here. “We’re already here. The Lou’s helped us, they’re worried for their daughter. Alma’s worried for her friend. Somethin’ bad’s goin’ on here.”

“I know, and that’s why we ought to leave.”

“I won’t. You can, I won’t stop you, but I won’t.”

They were both quiet for a moment, simply staring, Arthur unable to hold his gaze too long between nervous glances at his boots. He stood taller, staring at Charles with an unreadable look in his eyes. “I don’t know how you do it.”

“Do what?”

“How you’re so _ good _. Without ever havin’ t’stop and try.”

Charles didn’t know what to say to that. He reached out as if to offer him his hand.

The floorboards beneath them rattled violently. He yanked his hand back, staring at the ground.

“What’n the _hell-_”

Arthur and Charles glanced down simultaneously at the ground that rattled beneath them. Cut into the floor of the kitchen was a deep, square groove with a latch embedded into the cover. Arthur blinked. “The cellar.”

They both scrambled to step back off of it as it rattled once more and then stilled. They exchanged an uneasy look.

"I'll look," Charles said, leaning to lift it. The wood was heavier than he'd expected, creaking as it shifted. He squinted.

What he saw when he peered down into the cellar was nothing like he'd expected. He had prepared himself for something mundane- bottles and jars, jingling boxes full of keepsakes. Maybe something a little more fun- illegal stocks of moonshine, or documents proving money stolen off land and oil or other similar business foils. Perhaps he'd even anticipated something a bit more chilling, not unlike Ephraim Ackley's ominous excuse for a house- a blackened basement thick to the brim with that rank sulfuric smell and the bodies of dismembered animals or discarded maids. Wouldn't have surprised him.

What he had _ not _, however, prepared for in the least was a haphazard, rusted metal pipe in his face and the young woman holding it scrambling and leaping up to threateningly slash at the air.

"Woah, woah! Hey, it's- _ shh _ , ma'am, I'm- we're not here to hurt you, _ ma'am- _"

"You tell that old witch to go to _ hell _!"

“Listen to me, _ please _.” He didn’t try to touch her, or to get in the way of anything. He leaned back on his haunches, pulling his mask up to reveal his face and then putting his hands high in surrender. He couldn’t see, but hoped Arthur did the same. “We came here to get you out. A whole lot of folks have been missing you.”

Judging by the tight dark curls of her hair- now all matted and dirty- he assumed she must have been Sarah Anne. “Are you Sarah Anne?”

She nodded stiffly.

“Where’s Louisa?” He began, and Sarah Anne cringed.

“They killed her, mister.”

“Oh.” He paused, staring blankly down at her. “I’m sorry. Where did they-?”

“They brought her up into the kitchen,” She said with a definitively pointed look. “She didn’t come back, Louisa. I heard awful- awful things from down here, just awful.” 

He thought about the buffet of meat just outside, and the tang of cooking flesh that permeated the kitchen right then. He quickly tried to stop thinking about it. "Where's Francine? The other maid- is she here with you?" 

Sarah Anne had a tense sort of look on her face, her lips pinched and brows tilted low over her eyes. "Down here," she said simply, and stepped down the two ladder-rungs to make way. There was an evident wariness to her movements. Charles swallowed, casting a quick glance and a nod to Arthur before he descended into the darkened cellar.

The wood creaked as he went, and the basement thrummed with muffled noise from above. Arthur was silhouetted in the light as he peered down, carefully keeping watch over him. There was straw on the ground, and uneven cobblestone. There was the sound of panting, too, like that of a dog, off in the dark.

As his eyes adjusted to the change and things came into focus, he took great care to notice everything around him. He noticed the giant barrels, probably full of alcohol. Noticed the discarded furniture and old tools pushed to the side. He looked to the far edge of the pit of blackness and as it became clear to him what he was looking at, his stomach churned.

There sat Francine, presumably, a limp creature of powerful muscle and rippling fur-clad flesh all wrapped up in bloodied redness, covered in it and with scraps of straw and ash from the floor that clung to her. His hand instinctively flew to his gun. He felt more than saw Sarah Anne come at him from behind, the pipe held over his head in threat of a horrible death, and Charles didn't move an inch. Neither did Arthur, or Francine, or the dark shadows which filled the space. None of them could bear to. He'd heard stories of this, women turned wolf- the structure of her head, her entire musculature and build was canidine, only stretched. She seemed taller than an animal might have been, with the posturing and physicality of a human, and with the look of a human behind those unnatural eyes, too.

And he looked at Francine as she trembled and sat hunched in the corner, himself with a gun in one hand and all the power to kill- and Charles couldn't do it. He couldn't do it, because he looked at her and he didn't see some mad dog, some half-monster pulled taut between the constraints of human physicality and animal. He saw shame, and liberation, and a body that could be redefined. He saw a scared young woman.

She growled low in her throat and stared at him. Francine looked absent, her mind clearly elsewhere. Her large teeth glistened in the dim light. "I hear the river," Francine groaned in two voices, maybe four, all rough and mutated by the deformed and underused voicebox she'd recently adapted. "I hear the river. It's so far away- the bayou, and the river, can you hear it? And the cicadas. They're _ screamin' _, and they're so far away. I still hear 'em." 

He didn't know what to say. He could hear the click of Arthur's gun- held one hand up and back to signal _ no _ , _ not yet _, and stepped closer to the woman. She pushed herself further back, shying away. Charles took it as a definitive sign not to invade her space and instead crouched to look her in the eye. "I can't hear much but you and me, I admit."

"Mm…"

Charles swallowed.

"Was this done to you, or is this…"

She smacked her lips. "Done to me?"

"How did it happen, I mean." He gestured. "This."

"It happened to me." Francine looked no less distraught, rhythmically shuffling her claws against the ground. "She happened to me."

"Who's _ she _?"

"Manon. Manon." 

"... Mrs Northcote."

She just nodded shakily, warily meeting his gaze. "You're with her, ain't you?"

He shook his head firmly. "I'm Charles. That's my friend Arthur up there. We're here to find you, and Miss Sarah Anne here."

"But you're _ here _ . How'd you get _ here _?"

"We can explain to you more later, ma'am. We ought to get you out of here."

Drool dribbled from Francine's jaw in one long line to the ground. Something about her face seemed _ limp- _ canidine, most certainly, big-toothed and hairy, in every way possible the look of a wolf, but sagging, with the skin hanging somewhat loosely like a doll in overlarge clothing. "I dunno how it happened but I think I would… I reckon I would die if I remembered what's eludin' me."

"Why do you say that?" 

She glistened with blood and sweat and stank of alcohol, presumably doused in it by the one tipped over barrel not far off, still quietly dribbling rum onto the concrete. He noticed, then, the bite mark impressed on her lower right throat, encrusted with her own drying blood. "I can't take it anymore. Anymore of anything, I ain't capable. There's no room. My heads too loud and I'm too awful hungry. Something terrible happened to me and I don't know much about it. That's it."

Charles accepted that readily. Whatever had been done to her had been done against her will. The bite, and the fact he was speaking to a woman in the mutated and horrifically misconstructed body of an enormous wolf didn't quite phase him as much as it all should've. He'd surely deal with this at a later date, when there was time to throw rocks and question the meaning of things until the lack of an answer drove one to boredom. He settled on his haunches before moving to stand. "Well, Francine, we'd best get you out of here before anybody notices. You alright to stand? Can you walk?"

She nodded. Charles turned to give Arthur a look over- but didn't see him. His brows furrowed. "Quick. We should be quick."

Francine hauled herself up from the ground and into her enormous height- really only a foot and a half or so taller than Charles, but it _ felt _ daunting to stand beside. Sarah Anne grabbed her by the arm for support, her metal pipe nowhere to be seen. The werewolf was surprisingly sure-footed for someone in her condition, though it seemed her footsteps on two legs were naturally inclined towards ambling, strange, long-limbed movements. The three made their way to the ladder, climbing up as quickly as they could manage with minimal noisiness, Charles' hand firm on the holster of his gun.

The kitchen still smelled rank. Charles thought on Louisa, and the smell, and the food they'd been eating just outside, and he cringed, moving away from the side of the kitchen where the oven still ran. Arthur was nowhere to be seen.

Then he heard it. 

"No, see- I'm simply lookin' for some assistance. I'm very glad to have found you!" 

The voices were muffled by the thick wood of the door they'd come through from the parlor; Charles and the two women shared wary glances. Sarah Anne slowly, carefully lowered the cellar door back against the ground, letting the handle fall with just the slightest _ clank _. He flinched. 

That was Arthur's voice, and someone else. Just a bit closer this time; "That buffet out there is... insufficient. Mr- Mr Stewart and myself thought we ought to let you know that you really ought to go have a look over it, because….."

The conversation continued, himself having stopped listening. They needed to get out- and fast. He turned to Sarah Anne. "You worked here," he whispered. "We need a way out."

She nodded quickly, fumbling absently with her tightly coiled hair and the scarf it was bound with as she glanced around the kitchen. She pointed to the middle door across the way. Charles nodded. Together the group rushed over through the doorway, Francine having to stoop considerably low and squeeze her shoulders inwards to fit. The door slid shut with a quiet click only moments before the other opened, the sound of heeled boots clicking rapidly against the tile.

"I simply haven't got the time, Mister, but I'm sure one of the maids should suffice to help! You see I've an awful lot to- what are you doing? You really ought not to be in here, sir, we're still cooking you see and the party's- the party's out there."

It was a man's voice. Charles blinked; Ephraim Ackley was the most likely candidate, surely. Something about his intonation seemed right. He spoke nasally, stuffy and anxious, quicker than most, like there was somewhere he'd better be fast and he didn't want to be there either. 

Charles wrinkled his nose, glancing around down the space around them. It was a thin, dark hallway adorned by little but the sparse bare bulbs of four dangling lights overhead and a window at the end that had been barred off by planks of wood. He glanced up at Francine, who was staring intently at him with a look like a starving dog. He looked away. 

There were two doors, and at the end of the hall there seemed to be a curve down along another walkway. There was a dumbwaiter embedded in the wall. A few steps and he stood before it, shuffling through the tray of mail which appeared to be waiting to be sent up. "Letters?" He muttered, skimming over the various pretentious names and boring subject lines.

"Mrs. Northcote's private mail," Sarah Anne nearly spat, seemingly enraged by the mere thought of the woman. Francine's hackles rose. He knew he was in good company. Then- one letter among the pile made him halt entirely, staring. _ Alma Neall _. It had already been opened- he read it without hesitation.

_ 'The job is done. My debt is paid. I expect the promise to be fulfilled, and am forever in your service. I'll be in attendance near moonrise.' _

A wave of cold dread flooded through him. They'd been set up. "Do you know an Alma Neall?" He asked, holding up the envelope.

"Heard of her," Francine managed. Her speech was gravelly and low, warped, layered with what he assumed to be a growl, and perhaps her human voice underneath it all. "She worked with Louisa. She hated her. Louisa was gonna be hired on here.. 'n Alma weren't too happy 'bout it." 

The pieces all started to come together in his mind. He realized, then, that Arthur was still standing alone in a kitchen with Ephraim Ackley not far from a whole party of strange people- and that sick woman who, according to this letter, _ knew _ who he _ was _. Their cover had been blown and whatever they were all looking forward to towards the end of the night was coming closer by the tick of the clock; he couldn't afford to waste a second of it. "We need to get Arthur and get out of here." 

He'd known the plan was too coincidental, too many pieces falling perfectly into place. He almost wondered if he'd been set up into it, or if his presence was just a wayside hinderance. Maybe he was just the convenient cherry on top. What more could a party of meat-hungry, human-caging aristocrats want than not one, but two big, strong cowboys shown up unsuspecting and wrapped in a ribbon on the doorstep?

The clock on the wall read 11:34. Time was running out.

"Actually." Charles looked at the two women who stood behind him. "Do you think the two of you can get yourselves out of here alright?" 

Sarah Anne looked pointedly at the gun he held. "Rather not, mister."

"What if I escort you?"

Sarah Anne looked up at Francine, expression pinched in nervousness. The wolf shrugged. "Mister, we can't just go walking down the street with her in this condition. Where will we go?"

He thought about it for a moment, considering all the buildings in their proximity. He glanced at the clock. "It's dark out. Take the alley down toward Hanson's. You know the place?"

Sarah Anne nodded.

"Okay. Take a right by the back of it and go over the fence- there's an abandoned shop building right by it still in livable condition. Arthur and I will find you."

"We can do that."

She pushed him gently to the wall as she slid past him down the hall, peeking a head around the corner at the end and then one through a sliver of space between the boarded-over window. Judging by her satisfied nod, the way must've been clear. She ushered them both closer. "We can go out the window in the coat room. It's big enough."

"Thanks," Francine replied with a roll of the eyes. Charles had to suppress a snort. 

They could still hear the muffled, but increasingly distant retreating sound of Arthur and Ephraim talking. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end to think of Arthur in the company of that man- he thought of his house, the rotting corpse of the cow, the _ smell- _ and couldn't separate the home from the owner.

The hall was lined by two more doors, each on wheels so as to slide aside for entry to the parlor. He hadn't noticed them while inside; they must've been camouflaged to the walls of the room. All these back rooms and secret passages- the ends people went to to avoid looking their household attendants in the eye was astounding. 

They turned one last corner. The three froze. The back door into the coat room was open- with one of Mrs. Northcote's maids standing at attention, back turned to them, waiting to attend to any late guests. Charles knelt to quickly unsheath his knife from within his boot, gesturing to Francine to retreat back around the shield of the corner. He took some slow steps up behind her, grabbing the young woman around the midsection, knife held to her throat. She gasped, and burst into tears.

"Wait! Please, I haven't got anything to-"

"Shh. I won't hurt you; I need you to listen. I don't know much of your involvement but I know this- you need to leave _ now _. I need you to open that window there." He pushed her gently forward, knife still aimed at her back, no longer touching her. Charles hated threatening innocent bystanders like this, but what better option was there? It wouldn't do anyone any good if she called for help. The maid obliged, slowly lifting the wide windowpane up high into the frame as it could go, her every movement hindered by her trembling muscles. She stood still, waiting for the next command. 

"You need to climb through that window and leave right this instant. Run as far as you can, back to safety- not to your own house, if your employer knows where that's at. Don't come back." He put the knife away in his boot. She didn't need to be told twice, scrambling out of the window with a severe lack of grace, yelping as she tumbled out into the bush outside, tugging her dirtied skirt along with her as she ran off into the distance and the night. 

He watched her go until he was sure she wouldn't be making any rash decisions, then turned to call the women over. "Francine!" Sarah Anne called, hushed, and the big, wolfen woman peeked her head around the corner, unnatural eyes glinting in the light of the oil lamp. She scurried over at a speed that was anything but reassuring to him, up on the sill and clambering out the window quicker than he could even open his mouth and ask her to. He leaned out to wave. "Francine- if I ain't mistaken, your parents are looking for you. I'll be sure you get to them."

Francine didn't reply. She nodded and stood, waiting for her friend. He pulled his head back into the room to look expectantly at the woman in question; Sarah Anne turned to Charles and pressed something into the palm of his hand, holding him there. "Thank you for saving my life, and hers. You're a kind man."

She let go. One leg at a time swung over the sill and out into the garden, where she tried to catch up with Francine as she went. "Good luck finding your friend, mister! Best of luck!"

And with that, the two were gone. 

He wondered if he'd ever see them again. Wondered also why he cared if he didnt- he worried for Francine, and the Lou's, and for what awaited them in life. He worried about a lot of things these days. He opened his closed palm- she'd left him a strange little charm. A sheep's head, silver, with blank eyes and detailed etchings along its belled collar. He tucked it into his pocket.

Next up on the list of things to worry about turned out to be, unsurprisingly, _ Arthur Morgan _, who was assumably out stuck in a small crowd of stuck up folks who knew full well what he was up to and certainly wouldn't be letting him get up to it. He could not leave him. Charles resented the fact that their already lackluster excuse for a plan was now even less than useless, leaving him entirely to his own devices as he scrambled to get them out. But still- he could not leave him. 

He went over the situation in his mind and pulled his mask down over his face. Their options were few, but options nonetheless. So he picked one and stuck with it. 

°

The kitchen still stank of flesh. There was no one attending to it, however, and he idly hoped the house might burn down from their own carelessness; all the same he meant no harm to the attendees and staff of the house. Only those cruel and responsible, most of _ all _ Mrs. Manon Northcote. Charles quickly adjusted his tie before swinging the kitchen door open, making his way back out into the hall towards the parlor once more. Sweat chilled his hands, and stained the back of his neck. The air was thick with cologne, wet dog, and the smell of meat. He felt oddly nauseated. 

His eyes scanned the crowd. Bottles of champagne burst open- some lady's string of pearls burst as it tore on another's dress, the shining marbles of white rolling across the ground- taffeta fluttered and sparklers glittered and spat fire across the room, everyone loud and vying for each others attention, bodies pressed together laughing, hysteric, yelling, pushing- 

Then he saw him, Arthur, short as he was among the small crowd. There was Ephraim Ackley, listening as he fabricated a rant about something or other over the buffet, gesticulating grandly. Charles smiled. 

The crowd was small but enthusiastic as ever; he had to push and carefully maneuver as he shuffled through the crowd. A lady complimented his mask, putting her hand on it. Two men he couldn't recognize made a rude comment as he shuffled past them, one he paid no mind. 

"Mister?" The same young lady who'd complimented his mask asked, a hand on his arm. Evidently she'd followed him. "Would you dance with me?"

"I'm sorry ma'am, but I've got something important I need to do before I can dance." He gently pried her fingers off his arm.

"Oh," she said, downtrodden. "Well, find me later!" and she was gone.

He made it to Arthur without tripping over anyone's skirts, thankfully. He gave him a look like a man lost- just a quick glance, a begging to be spared from even a moment more of playing the fool for Ephraim here- and Charles scrambled for an out. "Our partner in business has a question for you, _ Magnus _." 

Ephraim had a face so pinched it gave the impression of a child with a mouthful of sour candy. His nose was small and bulbous, his brows profound and eyes an unpleasantly bright blue. He wasn't handsome, but he was tall and direct and carried himself with a certain level of pride despite his station. "That sounds like something you should attend to, Mr. Magnus. I thank you for bringing...all of… _ this _ to my attention." 

He gestured like he hadn't the scantest idea of what he was talking about either.

Putting one big hand on his shoulder, Charles directed him out and around the bustle of guests. He shot a look at the clock; _ 11:56 _. The unmasking would happen any moment now- he anxiously checked his own mask with his free hand, adjusting it on his face. Arthur was flushed and looked worn out by the interaction. They came upon the hallway leading into the kitchen once more. 

"What happened?"

"Damn butler was about to come in. Heard him nagging at one of the maids 'fore he was 'bout to bust in, had to stop him. Unexpected as gunplay in Bible study."

Charles snorted. He nodded towards the kitchen. "I got the women out safely, they-"

"_ Excuse _ me, this is a private area."

They stopped mid-step. Blocking the doorway to the kitchen was none other than Manon Northcote. The clock rang out across the room with a deep clang that resonated through the room; the aristocrat stared at them, _ growled _, really growled like a caged animal. One moment she was human and the next, that began to change. He'd already seen the result in Francine, but the transition into it was no comparison. Seeing something in its stagnant state, the bone structure settled in and the body acquainted with itself was not so scary. But the transformation- the becoming of the horrible thing, that change from one state of being to another was grotesque. 

It took too long. It wasn't fast. There was no clap of thunder and lightning and then a woman was a wolf; no, it was longer, it was drawn out and horrendous and Charles could taste all the meals he'd eaten through the day threatening to come up, could feel the spit collecting in his mouth and the nervous sweat seeping into his shirt from where Arthur was pressed against him. 

The clock ticked by and he could hear the muffled sounds of others coming closer behind them, too, but could not move an inch from the spot. The meat and the bones all warped and shifting, altering in some horrific expression of monstrosity- the otherness of the sight rocked him, felt so foreign and so intangible that Charles briefly and honestly considered the possibility that he may have been losing his mind. 

Manon Northcote started out tall already but it was nothing against the height she rose to- stretched to, really, like taffy being tugged, and tugged and tugged until it pulled so far you thought it might tear. Her muscles groaned audibly against it; her bones creaked, popped, snapped. Her flesh squelched wetly as it molded into something new. The air smelt of lime, of blood and wet dog, stank like alcohol and something sugar sweet and rotting. Manon's face stretched first, jaw unhinging and clicking unpleasantly as it slid into place- the new teeth grew like jagged fenceposts in her mouth and pressed into her upper gums in such a way that blood poured out the sides of her new jaw onto the ground. Now he understood why Francine had been so filthy. 

Her arms and legs pushed out, the ligaments realigning to accommodate new joints and unnatural angles. It was wolflike, most certainly, but there was something wrong to it too. He'd never seen a wolf that looked like that, so taut, unnaturally bent and limp, like a child who'd only ever drawn humans trying to scrawl an image of a wolf by pure power of imagination. Manon groaned and snapped at him, dug her lengthening claws into the floor as blood and white frothy foam coagulated on the ground around her; she looked starved, and so angry she was sick with it. Charles knew the others who had transformed were most likely in a similar state. Then she did something more terrible than any of it yet; she laughed. She laughed, and laughed, and others laughed with her. 

Arthur turned his head to look back then and made such a quiet, shocked noise that it tempted Charles into looking too. 

He didn't know how he recognized her as a wolf but he did. There stood the woman who'd been eating the steak earlier, still chewing hungrily at the flesh with the same vigor as before- only now her meal was the throat of some poor partygoer. The man hung in her gangly arms, dead or unconscious or somewhere on the path between the two. The werewolf that held him leered at them, glee flashing in her eyes before she tore into his throat. Blood splattered all over. The room seemed to go red. He hadn't noticed but in that very instant, Arthur had moved to stand in front of Charles; he now stood drenched in viscera, gun in hand, wide eyed and helpless in shock. She roared at them. It was incredibly loud. Deafening. The party noises behind them in the parlor got louder and the people started to scream, to bark, flesh squelching and crunching loudly, the sound of skin stretching like rubber pulled taut and the collective hissing and euphoric laughter of the folk all changing. His panic rose. 

Arthur raised his gun and shot her three times in the neck. 

Manon spoke in too many voices, layered and gravelly. "You thought you tricked me."

Neither of them replied. 

"You came here, and you thought..you thought.." She was too close for comfort. They were trapped. Manon Northcote laughed from behind and over them. "You can listen to the wolves cry all you want, y'know, but if you're to join in- well, you'd best be ready to commit to it." 

Alll at once there was too much movement to keep u with; the room exploded in a flurry of activity as Arthur shot into the crowd of giant, drooling wolves and Charles himself grappled with Manon. There was too much noise; the tearing of fabric, an awful hissing up close to his ear. She had him by the shoulders and all at once he saw her head on, saw the terrible glowing eyes and the way her stinking mouth cracked open, teeth dripping drool and crusted with blood. He shoved back hard against her as his gun went flying across the room; he tried to punch her but it did very little good but make his fist throb in pain. She smelled unwashed and rotting, with a metallic undertone to it all that made Charles' stomach churn, nauseated. 

Manon Northcote was stronger than him in this moment, driven by sheer desperation. She was a wounded animal, starving, grappling for her life. Desperation bred recklessness. He let himself go limp in her grip. 

Behind him gunshots rang out. He could hear Arthur cursing and the sound of barking, and the cries of wolves in pain. She leaned in close, that horrible stinking mouth close enough to bite. They both knew that was just what she planned to do. "Oh, don't worry, don't worry. I kicked and bit and screamed my way through it. So will you." 

Just when she thought she had him, her grip loosened. She leant in closer as if to chew on his neck and all at once he threw all his body weight against her, shoving the wolf onto the ground beneath him. He unsheathed his knife in the blink of an eye.

Without much space to cry out and even less to escape, Manon panted, fruitlessly kicked and flailed her formidable arms and legs, fighting uselessly against air. He pressed in closer and slid his knife into the side of her throat so smoothly, so utterly without resistance that it felt like cutting butter. Charles cringed. He leant into the gushing blood of the thing, ground his teeth in sheer focus and felt the heat of it sizzle on the skin of his forearms. He put his weight on the creature, knee digging into her ribs, pressing down while his hand sawed upwards through her throat with the jagged hunting knife_ . _

The frantic movements of her limbs became weak twitches, which diminished slowly. Then they stopped altogether. He loosened his grip incrementally. He stopped cutting. Beneath him, the werewolf took one final hoarse wheeze and then, all at once, she was dead. 

He was motionless, frozen in space. Couldn't breathe or move or do any of the things he wanted to. There was a ringing in his ears.

"We gotta go!"

The world got loud again fast. Arthur's hands were on his shoulders and then under his arms, pulling him back and up and off her as quickly as he could. They swayed back, Charles dizzy from the nausea and the proximity he'd just had to his own death. They tilted towards the door and crashed through it, Charles weakly pointing to guide them through the next door, down the servants hall and through the window just like they'd done earlier. Behind them, massive hulking beasts of mutated flesh barked and snapped and shoved their massive bodies through the splintered remainders of the doorways they barreled through on their way to pursue the hunt. "Charles, come on. Quick!" 

They dove one by one through the window, each quickly regaining balance, Arthur helping Charles up when he came after him. Then the race really began. Arthur threw his head over his shoulder to shoot back at the approaching crowd. The gunshots rang out deafeningly across the alleyway, echoing off the walls and buildings all around them. 

Beside him was Arthur, red-cheeked and grimacing as he ran and ran with him. The night felt colder than ever. "Follow me," he panted and they went skidding down the alley into a closed off area. Charles dragged Arthur down behind a wall with him _ just _ as one of the wolves went tumbling past on the other side. 

Arthur was over him, both hands on his chest and the gun turned away from him. Their faces were inches apart. There was no space to move in the cramped corner, lest they be seen. They sat in stillness and stared at one another. 

Two more of the wolves passed them by, heaving and barking, dribbling trails of blood and shed fur in a trail behind them. 

"What happened to Ephraim?" Charles whispered.

Arthur swallowed. "He changed with the lot of the guests. I shot most of 'em who weren't human. Were about five left standing but Ephraim- well, he got away. He got through the door quicker'n I could catch him." 

"Whenever he doesn't look like… _ that _ anymore, he's almost surely gonna go to the law." 

He thought about the scene they'd left behind them. Two outlaws in masks who infiltrated the party of a wealthy aristocrat and shot up her damn house and all the guests, leaving a horrible mess behind- there would be little mercy for them, and nothing withheld in the search to hunt and hang them. He took a fistful of Arthur's shirt and hauled him up from over him- they both stumbled back, swaying in place. Their breath mingled; adrenaline coursed through him in waves. It took a great amount of effort to step back and let go, resisting the urge to bury his face into Arthur's neck and block out all the horrors they had just witnessed. Taking a deep breath, he turned to the fence lining the alley. "If we cross that, we can make it somewhere safe."

Arthur didn't respond. He seemed dazed, lost.

"Arthur?"

"Hm?"

"Follow me."

"Whatever you need," Arthur replied, and followed him as he always did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I have often thought that with any luck at all I could have been born a werewolf, because the two middle fingers on both my hands are the same length, but I have had to be content with what I had.” ― (Shirley Jackson, We Have Always Lived in the Castle.)


	10. you want freedom.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The monster is defeated, but the danger is not done and gone. Home waits, and the long road stretches on ahead.

"What is this place? You're gonna have to tell me again." 

"Why didn't you listen the first time?"

"I _ was _ listenin'! Just... thought I heard somebody."

"It was nothing, Arthur." Charles shook his head. "It's by a place called Hanson's. It's empty. An old warehouse attached to a shop, actually, just as abandoned."

"Run-down?"

"Yup."

"Safe?"

"Yup." 

"Hm." Arthur still seemed to be completely on edge, glancing around every corner with wary eyes, twitching at the slightest scuffle or sound. He was still drenched in blood, and other things Charles would rather not look close enough to identify. He would have looked frightening if it weren't for his nervous composure. He fiddled with his hands, shaking them at his sides or absentmindedly running his fingertips over his bruised knuckles.

"I stayed there once after a job had gone bad."

"What happened?" 

"The fella gave me the job said it wasn't violent, but he set me up. Used me as bait, really- my only choice should've been to kill or be killed, either result a good one in his books."

Arthur's expression tightened, brow furrowing. 

"Anyways, something happened that none of us counted on and I took the chance to get the hell out. Escaped just barely through these alleys out here; had to stay the night, seeing as he didn't have to work hard to know where I was actually staying."

"Never found you?"

Charles shook his head. "I laid low here for three days. Got back to my apartment and found it ransacked. I've stayed other places since then."

"Saloons?"

"Usually."

Arthur followed him around the corner as he guided him down the dark alleys. He felt a hand brush over his arm, quick and gentle, gone so fast he thought he might be imagined it.

"I'm sorry that happened." Like it wasn't the norm. Like it wasn't light and meaningless compared to the bind they'd gotten themselves into _ this _ time. Arthur sounded forlorn, resentful of the circumstances. 

"This is it." 

The place was falling apart. Genuinely rotting; the majority of the uncared for tiles of the roof had slid off and crashed into the ground below, resulting in a fenced courtyard full of dust and ceramic hunks. Moss had dug its way into the walls of the brick structure, wiggling between in every which way they could get in- the fence was lopsided and bent abnormally, with a gap between two far left bars just wide enough for the both of them to fit through one by one. It smelled like coal, like firewood and leather and age. But it wasn't filthy. It was honest of its flaws, a straightforward classical building which withheld no truths of its inner conditions. Arthur gave the courtyard a good look over before he approached the fountain in the center of all the brick and clutter. 

"Don't look too dirty."

The water wasn't clear, but it was far from brown or green or mucky in some other way. They'd bathed and even drank worse, back at Shady Belle; this was nothing. The still water of the fountain sufficed for him to start to scrub himself clean of all the blood and guts that were smeared all over him; first the face, of course, followed by the jacket and pants. He threw the mask aside. It was useless to them now, even more incriminating than their bare faces. Charles leaned against the other side of the fountain and idly washed his own face and hands. Luckily, his clothes had escaped the unfortunate fate which Arthur's had endured. 

He watched him wash, how the droplets of water poured down his face and dripped from the longer strands of his scruffy stubble. Arthur looked tired. Handsome, filthy, hair coming down in loose strands from where it had been tied back in a bun, and utterly tired. He understood.

Something moved in his periphery- from the upper window, clouded by dirt and age, the silhouette of a woman in black and white; it must have been Sarah Anne, he was sure of it by the way she fled so quickly. Not a minute later and the loose back door was creaking open just wide enough for her head to poke out, angled, seeking, a smile growing on her face once she recognized them. Arthur flicked his hands free of water. They walked inside.

> °

The old building felt like a living thing despite its deteriorated condition. The walls creaked and floors groaned; the window panes rattled with every slight gust of wind. The house felt paper-thin and fragile from the inside, still full of plush furniture and empty shelves where goods had once been stored and sold. The upper levels were scant in decoration- some bed frames, only three with mattresses, a few settees and some old wooden chairs were all that was left in the rooms.

On one wall, however, there was one wall-hanging left. There were nail holes and strips with wallpaper missing where one could easily tell there had once been art, frames, photographs, mirrors. All that remained was one framed glass box containing a complicated piece of hand-made artistry, in the form of a floral sculpture. Upon closer inspection, it wasn't made of string as it looked from afar- it consisted entirely of hair, brown and mousy and with a slight curl to it. The box smelled like aged pomade. On the plaque below the box was an inscription; _ Blessed Mary-Jane _. 

Charles leaned away from the thing in mild distaste. It certainly wasn't the strangest thing he'd seen that night. Still didn't mean he had to like it.

"They won't find us here, will they?" 

Sarah Anne sat on the floor to the corner, Francine's big, furry head resting on her lap. The room seemed too small for the four of them already, especially for the giant wolf woman. She seemed to take no notice, however, just quietly humming as Sarah Anne scratched soothingly behind her ears. The maid looked at him expectantly. 

Charles cast a wary glance out the window. He couldn't see much from this vantage, the street blocked mostly from view by a massive brick wall. One of the window-panes was missing. In the distance he could hear the sound of muffled shouting, some whistles, the occasional barks of dogs. Tell-Tale signs of the law. It made sense considering their proximity to the site of the crime- didn't necessarily mean they were on to them just yet. "I don't think so."

"I've never been wanted by the law before."

He stopped back, moving to sit by Arthur on the bed. Rested his hands on his knees, leaning forward. "Sorry."

"Not your fault. For all I know, you hadn't come and gotten us we would've rotted in that basement."

"Or become dinner," Francine chimed in, surprising everyone. She had looked asleep. 

"Or become dinner." Sarah Anne nodded firmly, like the notion was somehow meant to reassure them all. "What's your name again, mister?"

"Charles," he replied. He pointed to Arthur, who was sitting beside him with his head in his hands. Evidently, he was having a bit more trouble processing the whole.. _werewolf_ situation. "This is Arthur." 

She gave him a long, scrutinizing look, squinting through the darkness. They hadn't changed lighting a match or a light for risk of being seen. "And what are you two?"

"What do you mean."

"I mean, what are you by profession. You don't seem like the type of men who usually attended Mrs Northcote's… events." 

Arthur snorted. "Aw, hell, you caught us."

"You two some kinda cowboys?"

"Not really. At least, not most of the time. We try to help people when we can. Do what we have to to get by. We're not good men, but we try to be better than the bad ones."

"So.. outlaws."

"Yes." He looked at the two women hunched on the ground and pondered on the sounds of lawmen out to get all four of them, not so far from here. It was almost funny how broad a spectrum of persons the term _ outlaw _ could encompass. 

Francine shivered then, hard. He scratched his beard. "It looks like that wound on her neck almost closed up."

The bite mark was still there, but it no longer looked like a hunk had been taken from her. Francine seemed to really be asleep this time. Sarah Anne ran a gentle hand across her head. "While you two were still in the house, I tried to sew it shut." She pointed to the little tin of sewing supplies discarded on the ground beside her. "It sewed itself up too quick for me to be of any help."

"How do you mean?"

"I mean, I sat and watched while it slid shut again like I'd just packed and sewn it myself. It's a scar, sure, but sure as hell not a wound anymore. It just… sealed right up." 

"Hm." Considering they were talking about a woman in the body of a gigantic wolf monster, that wasn't the strangest news. He didn't know a thing about werewolves, besides the rare legends here and there, mostly just scary stories that Tilly and Uncle had argued about over the campfire sometimes. "That's a good thing, that she heals fast."

"Do you think turning back into...herself, do you think it'll hurt her?"

Charles shrugged. "I don't know, Sarah Anne."

"Me neither. I hope not." 

Arthur slumped against his shoulder and then abruptly shot upright, having noticed himself nodding off. He jerked upwards and stood, stretching forcefully, sighing. 

"You okay, Arthur?"

"Dandy. Ladies- well, Sarah. You wanna get some rest? Reckon Charles and I can go on shifts watching the place." 

"Sure, that'd be just fine. Thank you, mister."

He nodded and pulled Charles up by the elbow. "Should take this bed here. Francine looks right comfortable on the ground there, but don't think she'll wanna be too far from you."

"That's right," Sarah Anne said, and very tenderly pulled her legs out from beneath Francine, laying the bigger woman's head down on her neatly folded apron. "You sleep well."

Charles gave her a friendly little salute before they ducked one by one out of the room, closing the creaking door gently behind them as they went.

The room across the hall wasn't very fancy. Bare-bones as the other, there was only a side table- cabinets empty- a wooden chair by the window, and one threadbare mattress on a rickety frame. Didn't really bother either of them, though, considering the conditions in which they usually slept. Arthur moved as if to go sit down on the chair for first watch, but Charles wasn't having it; the man was obviously utterly fatigued, his back hunched and face slack. "No, you need to sleep."

"You're the one who fought that damn werewolf with your bare hands!" He protested, though it came out an awful lot more like a tired mutter than an accusation. "Should be you," he continued, but complied feebly when Charles pressed his shoulders down until he relented and sat on the bed. "I still don't really understand all we saw today. I just don't."

"Me neither." Charles thought again on the horrifying transition between man and wolf- he might never scrub the image of all that carnage, of that impossible change of state from his mind. Nausea still bubbled up dimly when he thought of the way Manon Northcote's teeth had sunk into her own gums, the blood pouring everywhere- he stopped the train of thought before it could go any further. "We should talk about it another time."

Arthur grumbled. 

"I'll wake you in a few hours." _ Sleepy old fool_, he thought, but didn't say.

"Mm.." Arthur flopped back against the mattress. He stood by the bed for a moment, still and calm and a little amused by the way Arthur seemed able to sleep anywhere at all. He didn't expect the hand on his arm, tender and firm, or the way the touch made his pulse quicken. It lingered much longer than it needed to; his voice was so quiet that he barely even heard. "Thank you, Charles," he whispered, and let go of him.

Charles slowly moved away from the bed to the chair, sitting as carefully as he could down on the fragile old thing. It squeaked as he sat down to stare out the window. He held his hand against his arm where Arthur had touched him, and watched the city as it slept.

> °

He awoke to Arthur shaking his shoulder insistently. "Morning, your highness."

Silence. Charles scrubbed at his face, rolling over in the small, uncomfortable bed. "You're fired."

"When's the beheadin'?"

"Public stoning," he corrected into the weak excuse for a pillow.

"Oh, _ fancy _."

"Mhrm." 

"We ain't got much to eat for breakfast."

He'd gone longer without eating before. "That's alright."

"Care for some salted offal?"

"You really know your way to a man's heart." 

"I try." 

Eventually, Charles heaved himself up from the bed and went about the work of getting ready for the day. It was quick work, considering their lack of supplies; he had very little on him besides his traveling pack, some photos, some food, just enough to have kept on him throughout the experience. Arthur recounted the uneventful night to him. The law had set up a patrol along the main three roads surrounding the area. He didn't bother to ask Arthur how he knew this. Charles had spotted one of the party attendees walking slowly down the road just over the wall during his watch shift, tensing up until the man seemed to give up the search and drift away again. He glanced out the window as he passed, reluctantly eating Arthur's salted offal, half expecting to see him again. Nothing.

"You sleep alright?" Arthur asked with genuine concern in his tone.

Charles shrugged. "I've had better."

"Me too."

"It'll get easier. We had a rough day."

Arthur just hummed, going back to cleaning his gun. 

"Sarah Anne? Francine?" Charles called, then, a little louder to be heard through the thin walls. 

The door creaked open. There stood none other than Francine, donning an under-dress which he assumed must have been beneath Sarah Anne's work uniform. She was taller than he'd expected her to be when back in her human body, slim, with thin wrists, an angular jaw, a wide nose, pronounced cheekbones. An elegant woman, really. Her eyes were dark but he could've sworn that in just the right light, there was a glint of gold there. She looked tired and wrung out. Dark circles stained her face. "Morning," she said, like it was any other day. Like this was routine. "Hope y'all slept well."

"Well enough, ma'am."

"I ain't a ma'am. Just Francine, or Miss Lou, though I think we're on a first name basis after all you've seen of me." 

"I'm glad to see you're alright."

"Yeah. Little less big and hairy this minute."

Arthur approached the conversation hesitantly. "If you don't mind my askin', Miss Lou, what brought on the change back?"

"I just woke up this way. Sarah Anne said she saw it happen, that some point I just relaxed, the sun rose and I weren't a wolf no more." 

Charles peeked over her shoulder. "Where is she?"

A sad look crossed her face then. "She's gone. Said she reckoned it'd be best we didn't all leave in one big group, and besides she's got her father to get back to. He's ill, you see."

"I do."

She fiddled idly with the fabric of her dress. "Thank you for helpin' us."

"No need. It was just common decency."

"Seems most folks are lackin' that lately."

Charles nodded. "I think that myself sometimes." 

"Should we go, then? Soon, I mean? Can't imagine it'll be easy gettin' out this place unnoticed."

The sounds of the city outside were relentless. The streetcar rattled on its tracks, children laughed, dogs barked, elderly folk argued from their windowsills, men hooted and clapped, the laws whistles still rang out down the streets- this ramshackle house wasn't much defense from it all. He gestured to Arthur- they didn't have much time left. "She's right. We should go."

> ° 

The whistle of the lawman rang out in a sound so deafening that Charles couldn't help but clamp a hand protectively to his ear. 

"Stop!"

Suddenly there were two, then three officers all coming closer from all sides of the street, summoned by the commotion. Damn it all to hell. 

Arthur's gun was drawn right alongside Charles' as they both skidded back into the closest alley, bodily pushing Francine behind them. _ Fuck _. He knew what the whistle meant, knew it gave them very limited time before they were surrounded from all sides and had no choice but that of surrender. The consequences would be dire. So Francine made a dire choice first.

Her newly acquired dress tore into thin shreds as she writhed on the ground behind him- the process so violent and yell she'd released so loud that he couldn't have missed it happening. Arthur stayed by the corner, tense, gun held at the ready. She writhed in the shadows and the sun scarcely dared touch her. Whether it was her choice or the sheer force of her raw instincts, he couldn't tell, just trying to stay back enough to avoid her sprouting claws as they sought purchase on the ground. In some small mercy, her gums and nail beds didn't bleed this time. Fur sprouted from her flesh, her skin molding into something new. The sight was horrific. Still, she looked almost _excited_, letting out a passionate howl the moment her creaking bones snapped finally into place. Time seemed to slow as she shook herself out, joints popping, her mouth wide as she panted, tongue lolling out. Francine towered over everything.

The first lawman to come skidding up to the alleyway came face to face not only with the barrel of Arthur's gun, but also to the violently growling, dribbling, drooling face of the gigantic monster that was Francine's second skin. Her back wasn't so hunched anymore, her arms still freakishly long but there was something fascinating about the way she practically grinned, mouth full of dog teeth, panting, eyes bright with uncontrollable euphoria. He almost envied her. How must it have felt to be capable of so much and to _ know _ it so distinctly? What did the world smell like, and what colors could she see? How must it feel?

The lawman twitched forwards as if to shoot.

Francine tore his head off his shoulders.

Charles had always thought of the idea of beheading in the comical context, like a child slapping off the head of a scarecrow, or as the punchline of a joke. He realized then that he wasn't at all familiar with the reality. The crunch of it alone was gruesome, the sight only worsened by the way his body stayed standing, hand extended and twitching as if about to ask a question. _ Have you seen my head _ ? And then it slumped- _ he _ slumped, like a ragdoll or a bag of oats, boneless and hollow down to the brick road. Blood poured profusely down the slanted alley in a hot, black banner, sizzling as slid its way down into the sewer grate. Then there was the equally disgusting sound of Francine eating his head, her jaw unhinging in a manner more attributed to a reptile than a wolf. She relished in the carnage. And then it was over.

Charles grimaced, and decided he'd had enough of all the violence. He needed to get them out of this area before more people got torn apart.

The area looked familiar. He'd lived here long enough to get a basic understanding of the layout; they weren't far from a safe spot to hide. With one hand on Francine's side and the other tugging Arthur along, he forced them one by one to hop fences, crawl along bushes, creeping behind strange rickety buildings. At one point they even passed through a run-down factory, the halted assembly line meat hooks glistening in the dim light. Through the city and away from the scene of the crime until they'd come close again to the higher society part of town, down the back alleys behind. 

"Charles." Arthur's voice was hushed and insistent. "Charles!"

"Yeah?"

"Tilly and Karen don't live too far from here."

"I know."

"That where we goin'?" 

He nodded, shushing him. One lawman still patrolled the road up ahead, passing from time to time in and out of sight as he paced, obscured by a bush along the way. In a narrow line of three they followed Charles down the way, past two houses and over a fence until they had finally reached the yard behind Tilly and Karen’s home, attached to the larger, finer house of their employers. There were no other employees or residents in sight, though they watchfully checked the windows for anyone who might catch sight of them.

Arthur pointed at the shed that pressed up against the back of the house, beside where the ladies lived. “Francine, you think you can go in there? Don’t mean to offend but- I think the condition you’re in.. you might give ‘em a real fright, ‘n I know Karen’s the type to have a gun on her.” 

Francine didn’t seem offended. Blood trickled down from her jaw, and he could still see bits of the man's skull embedded between her massive teeth. “Bring me something to wear, and take me with you when you go.” She hung her head, then, breathing deep before she shot off in the direction of the shed; she had to maneuver carefully with her massive claws to pry the door open but managed just fine, slipping in without a sound.

With all loose ends tied up and no one in sight, the two men hurriedly put their weapons away and walked as quickly as they could to the little house. Arthur knocked firmly once, twice, thrice. 

“Coming!”

There came the sound of hurried shuffling, metal clanging, something sloshing and clicking and then there was Karen at the door, frazzled as ever, wide-eyed in shock. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came.

“Karen.” Arthur nodded to her, extending a hand. She didn’t reply, only scoffing before tugging him into the house by the arm, Charles following closely behind. He took in the interior of the cabin, noticing all the quaint details of the life they had built there.

“Tilly told me y’all might show up here- I didn’t.. Oh, eugh, Arthur. What is that in your hair?” She pointed accusingly at the blood that clotted a strand of his hair.

“We had some troubles comin’ on out here. I got to tell you somethin’, Karen, listen, I’ll tell you alla it later when we got more time to talk, y’hear? But- right now I just want you to know there’s a lady in the shed just by here. You can’t go see her just yet, I’ll have to check on her first. But I might be needin’ to borrow some clothes from one of y’all. She needs it.”

It didn’t seem to faze her one bit, Karen only looking all the more excited to hear the exciting story they surely had to tell. Charles glanced out the window; they’d be here for a few hours. He pulled up a chair to the table, taking a seat. 

Karen grinned. “Tell me _ everythin’."_

> °

The wagon swayed to and fro as they slowly made their way down the road out of Saint Denis and up towards Lakay. Charles, Arthur and Francine had all long since discarded the sheet that covered them in the back of the wagon, all relieved to be free of the stuffy thing. It had been necessary to hide them during their ride through the busier parts of the city, but had become horribly hot to hide under, considering the sweltering warmth of the city and the south. Charles ran his thumb in slow circles over the weave of the sheet’s fabric, a contemplative look on his face.

Taima and Shoshanah loyally followed the wagon to both sides of them, never straying too far. 

“You live out here?” Tilly asked, turning in her seat up at the front once she had handed Karen the reins.

“I do,” replied Francine, now human yet again, clean of blood and clothed in one of Tilly’s dresses. It seemed too short on her, her ankles showing from the end of it, but she didn’t seem bothered by it at all. “With my Mama and Papa. We live in Lakay a long time now. Not many folk bother us up there.”

“Ain’t it dangerous?”

“Sure, but not so much if you understand it. You just got to learn how to live safe and pay good attention to things.” 

Charles didn’t think he’d ever get to know the Bayou that well, or if he _ wanted _to. Bayou Nwa in particular unsettled him, still, but he could admit that something this time felt different than before. The air did not feel quite so thick and oppressive as before, the tight knot of trees no longer so claustrophobic, the air busy with birds and water full of fish. He felt lighter. A sense of restlessness had settled in him, though, and he didn’t much care for it; he wasn’t a restless man. He was patient. He lifted his binoculars nonetheless, curious of the area and what there was to be seen now that it was daylight and they had time to pay that good attention which Francine spoke of.

All was as it had been before. The dark green trees nestled close together, creating thick canopies that blacked out the sun in gaping patches overhead. Crocodiles slithered in and out of the water or sat in wait. He watched for several minutes, scanning the horizon as the wagon drove onwards.

He froze. 

Two of the night folk stood in the distance.

One was tall and slim with long, thick braids that reached to their waist. They were clothed sparsely, in a dark brown dress, torn a bit at some edges. Beside them stood another person with their hair trimmed short, a bag slung over one shoulder, kneeling in the mud. They were planting a tree. The scene looked peaceful, almost, harmonious despite the unsettling glow of their pale white eyes and the strange discoloration of their complexions. The one who stood seemed to take notice, somehow, of being watched; they turned sharply to him, meeting his gaze directly through the binoculars. They did not move towards him, only watching as they passed. Charles put the binoculars away. 

“Is that it over there?” Karen asked, slowing the horses in their steady gait. He sat up a little straighter and glanced to where she was looking- two massive trees were interwoven with one another’s roots, tied in a knot around the middle. He stood once the wagon came to a halt.

“That’s it.” 

He offered Arthur and Francine his hands, tugging them up and to their feet. They all hopped carefully out the back, wary of the muddy road. Their supplies would hopefully still be where they had left them- it wasn’t much, seeing as Arthur and Charles both had very little to their names, but they’d thought it better not to drag along any luggage in their hunt for the truth. They each moved to help Tilly and Karen down from the front of the wagon; Francine stood back, looking serenely out at the Bayou.

“You sure you don’t want us to drive you a little further?”

Charles hugged Tilly to his chest. “Nah. Like you said, you ought to be back to work- and to the city- before nightfall, and we're going a different direction.” 

“Alright,” She relented, but didn’t sound too pleased. She gripped him a little tighter, resting her head against his. He noticed only then that they were roughly the same height, her a bit taller due to the heels in her shoes, he assumed. Her hands were gentle as they rubbed circles on his back. She took a deep breath before she stepped back, holding him by the crook of the arm. “I’ll miss you, Charles. I’ll miss the both you boys. I have for a long time.”

He gave her the most gentle, reassuring smile he could muster. “I’ve missed you too, Miss Tilly. Don’t worry. We’ll be alright.”

“Uh-huh, sure. I’ll worry all I dang want to.”

He snorted and smiled, watching for a second as Karen and Arthur hugged too, then turning to walk over and join them as they said their goodbyes. He hugged Karen too, quick and sure and sturdy, her almost managing to lift him off his feet in her bone-crushing grip; she never failed to make him grin, head shaking, in awe of her relentless good humor. “You watch out for that idiot, alright?” She said, pointing right in Arthur’s face. He guffawed.

“Oh, I will,” Charles laughed, and smiled to see the way Tilly leaned against her, one arm winding around her waist. The two stood together, smiling brightly. Tilly perked up, gesturing to Francine. “Hey, are you gonna go on ahead with the boys or should we bring you to your family? It’s not all that far.”

Francine glanced between them all with a thoughtful look on her face. “I might go with you, if that’s no hassle for you.” 

“None at all.”

And so, the three waved goodbye to the men as they clambered up into the wagon. Arthur's face seemed to slacken in sadness, one hand tucking firmly up against his own chest, the other gently holding Tilly’s hand as he wished her goodbye. 

They watched as the wagon drove away, until it was nothing more than a cloud of dust between the dense trees. The air was full of fireflies, becoming visible in the fading light. The sounds of the river were calm and reassuring. Arthur looked mournfully after his friends, that look still there even after they were long gone. “They’ll be alright, Arthur.”

“I know.”

Charles studied him briefly, his dark eyes intense as ever, and Arthur quickly took notice, swallowing thickly under the attention. He tried for distraction. "Ride with me?" He asked, a fond smile on his mouth at the familiar phrase shared between them.

"Always." Arthur instantly replied, and Charles decided that he loved him.

There was little choice in the matter, of course, little choice at all- but there was choice in the pursuit, in the decision to say, yes; I love you. I love you on purpose.

Not that he had it in him to say so aloud just yet. Peering over at Arthur's broad silhouette as he moved back towards the horses, he thought about his options. He could never tell him so- could continue on with this game they'd been playing, walking tentative circles around the truth, both aware but not daring put a name to it lest it be stamped out. He could lie and hide his deeper affections even from himself. It wouldn't be the first time. Options. Sure, unpleasant ones, ultimately unsatisfying, bleak- but it was new to have some say in the choice to act on it at all. 

He stood by Taima, expectantly waiting for him like he was some damsel who needed a boost. Charles put his hands on his hips. "Are you going to _ lift _ me, or something?"

Arthur laughed. He tipped his head, grasping his hand when he offered it. "Sure, if you want me to."

Charles climbed into the saddle and looked at him with all the affection he could muster. It must have worked; a deep blush colored Arthur's face as he turned to hide it, moving quickly to his own horse. He watched him go.

I love you, he thought, testing it for its weight, and didn't say a word. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And tell me if somehow some of it remained  
How long you would wait for me?  
How long I've been away?  
The shape that I'm in now is shaping the doorway  
Make your good love known to me  
Just tell me about your day. (As It Was; Hozier.)


	11. vanity; all is vanity.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His tone became more serious. "Why can you see good in me, but never in yourself?"

Arthur woke before Charles did. 

It was a notable occurrence only on account of its rarity; Charles tended to be the early riser, usually rousing Arthur out of his laziness before it could reach mid-afternoon or anything so ridiculous. It was equally surprising considering the kind of sleep he'd been getting as of late, but Arthur couldn't help it. He'd slept restlessly, plagued by invasive nightmares, vibrant and violent and horribly loud, jolting him into awareness as the sun first struck his threadbare pillow.

The day began calmly. For once, there was no urgent matter demanding their attention; neither Arthur nor Charles were expected to burst in anywhere with guns blazing, or crawling around in the muck trying to find clues to some gruesome mystery. It was just them and the fresh air north of the swamps, and all the time they chose to take. 

Arthur sighed. Really sighed, the kind that really felt like breathing, a long deep gust of air through both nose and mouth, fresh and cool, pulled in all the way to the very core of him and released slowly. The kind of sigh that said, _ I'm glad to be alive. _The kind of sigh blown over the edge of his coffee mug, leaving the slightest cloud of fog behind. He heard the sounds of Charles getting up and getting ready for the day, off in the camp.

He still wasn't quite sure what it was that they had witnessed there in the Northcote house. What horrors had occurred there? For how long had it all been allowed to go on uninterrupted? He pondered on the fates of Louisa and even of Ephraim- though his hopes for that man's outcome were a little more grim. If their efforts had truly changed the ominous pattern of disappearances, he wasn't sure. At least he felt good knowing that they had offered Sarah Anne and Francine a chance at freedom and self-sufficiency. At least he felt good knowing they had lived. The birds in the trees cried out above.

He thought about Tilly, about Francine, even about Mary Beth and Charlotte. Charles had told him on their long ride out about his encounter with Karen- he couldn't describe how relieved he was to have seen how well she was doing. Arthur felt a immense sense of pride in her, knowing she had come so far and from so little, reassured that she and Tilly had one another to depend upon. They would carry one another through any toil and trouble, no doubt. He smiled even then, sipping quietly at his coffee as he thought. Things had aligned well in life for the two of them.

He folded up the letter he'd written to Charlotte, tucking it carefully into an envelope he'd picked up in Saint Denis- just in time, too, as the clouds split quickly after he'd finished, pouring down buckets and buckets of rain upon their camp.

Charles came over from where he'd been brushing the horses, dusting off his hands as he walked. He lifted the corner of the tent and gestured to Arthur- "What are you doing? Come on, get under cover."

"Alright, alright," Arthur laughed, and followed him into the cramped space. He glanced down at the muddy spot at the edge of the tent, and the muck on their boots. "We always go the nicest places." 

"Only the best for you."

"When are you gonna take me to a nice hotel or somethin'? Or are dirty hovels, muddy tents and creepy ole shacks the extent of it?"

"That's it." Charles grinned. "Got to stay humble somehow."

"I'm plenty humble."

"Sure."

"Bastard."

"I _ just _ brushed your horse for you."

"Helpful bastard."

"You've got to _ earn _ fancy hotels and real beds."

"I earned both just plenty, between the Bayou and them rich folks and their spooky shit."

"Hmm.."

"I did!"

"I don't think it was you that got yourself down from that tree."

"Low blow, Charles."

"Only the truth." 

The rain poured relentlessly overhead, the air now carrying the residual tang of metal. Charles smelled like creosote. Sage, too, and firesmoke. Arthur turned his face as if to hide the heat in his face, wishing for the shield of his hat, suddenly overcome by that frustrating sensation of nervousness that seemed to strike him only when so close to Charles. "I'm glad I didn't set up the fire yet."

"Mhm." 

"Hasn't rained this hard in a long time, now," Charles said, the slightest look of happiness lighting up his face. Arthur knew how he liked the rain. "I missed it."

"Me too." Arthur debated how to fill the silence. After a moment, he came upon just the right one. "Y'know- back when I was livin' with Charlotte, she had this awful bad gutter system that'd just make the most horrible racket. All hours of the night when it stormed, it sounded like buckets beatin' against the goddamn windows. Myself bein' sick and herself bein' sick of me and all," -Charles laughed- "we wasn't havin' none of it. Now, I couldn't get out there to fix it myself seein' as my ass was permanently attached to the bed that month according to the strict laws of Ms Balfour. She wasn't much of a handyman neither. So I had to draw up this whole- this whole _ booklet _ of instructions on what to do, really, 'cause she didn't trust me to give good enough advice on fixin' it just by yellin' through the window."

"Course not."

"So she goes climbing up there one day. Real lovely day, suns out, she's in a great mood and the windows are open and she's spent least three days readin' the damn booklet. Like it's some kind of test prep. I couldn't believe it. Anyhows she climbs up there and she's real quiet for a while, you know? Just...nothin'. I yell once, Charlotte, you gotten lost up there? and I just hear this scuffle, a yell, a little but of cursin'. And I see her head pop down in the window frame- just the worst angle! Upside down and angry as all hell, hair all over and she looks at me and says-" he imitated her high-society accent to the best of his ability- "_ Mr. Morgan _ , this instructional manual was very informative but I sure as hell don't see shit in here on what to do in the case there's _ raccoons _ involved."

Charles laughed- really laughed, the full body kind of laugh that turned to wheezing and gasps for breath. The story itself wasn't even that damn funny but it must've been the delivery, or the fact it was the first time they'd even had the chance to be silly in what felt like an eternity. 

After a while the humor tapered out. Charles worked on his carving, waiting out the storm; Arthur sketched idly in the journal he propped on his knee. 

The silence stretched out between them. 

Charles glanced up at him. His look was direct, grabbing his attention- he set the journal aside.

“What was it like? Surviving your- your sickness?” He asked. Arthur balked. Charles just gave him that solemn stare, the long gaze cast out the opening in the tent now shifting to him. He felt a bit cornered. Arthur didn't know if he had the words to justify his failure to die. "You spent so long away."

“It hurt.” 

Silence. More specificity on the second try. “And how was it, getting better?”

“It hurt,” he replied again, exhaustion coloring his tone. He knew that wasn’t what he meant. Arthur sighed. “It was gruelin'. TB, it wrung me out- barely felt human, got so bad I thought I'd die some days. But I had Charlotte with me. The woman that saved me- my friend, name’s Charlotte Balfour. A doctor, though she’s real rare t’admit to it, met her long time ago ‘fore- well, right ‘round when it all went south for the both of us. She was buryin’ her husband. I taught her t’hunt. The way she saw it, I saved her life. Reckon she decided to return the favor.”

“Mm. Is that who you were writing that letter to?”

Arthur nodded, staring at his boots as he spoke. “We promised we’d stay friends once we’d gone our own ways.” 

"I'm glad she helped you. Glad you're safe." 

"I am too."

"I.. I was very worried for you. I thought I'd never see you again." A strange look came over Charles' face, one he couldn't quite parse. He ran a hand through his hair, deep in thought. "It wasn't easy."

"What about you?"

"Mm?"

"What happened to you, I mean. I know you was- was havin' a rough time. Didn't take you for the type to enjoy living in Saint Denis of all places, no place for a good man like yourself to be wastin' the days." 

"Better to waste the day than waste away," Charles quoted but did not smile. A huff, devoid of any humor. "You're right. I spent a lot of time alone. Mostly in Saint Denis, but sometimes in Lagras."

"Lagras?"

"Rhodes isn't the friendliest place to be."

"Neither are the swamps." He thought back on life in Shady Belle with distaste.

"I prefer the people who live in those parts." 

"Explains how come I ran across you out there." 

"Still doesn't explain how I ran across _ you _."

"Was lookin' for Ephraim's place, you know that. 'Til those monsters got to me."

"They ain't monsters, Arthur. Besides.. you shouldn't have been there when you were. The night folk don't take kindly to outsiders; you knew better."

Arthur didn't know what to say. "Suppose you're right." He swallowed. "Huh." He glanced up at him, his curiosity insatiable. "But where've you been, Charles? What've you been doin', to get by?"

"I just did what I'd done all those years before. Worked. Survived." 

"You said once you was done with that. The bein' alone. Livin' just t'survive."

Charles stared, then, unflinching and right into his eyes in the kind of way that felt like his heart was being dissected in his own breast. "I didn't have much choice."

"What kind of work?"

Charles didn't reply right away. "Factory work. Grunt work, lifting boxes, fighting, bodyguard jobs. Protecting stagecoaches, once or twice."

"You said _ fightin' _?"

"Mm. The back-alley sort. It paid well enough."

"N'that was all you did. No other plans?"

Charles had the dignity to look a bit defensive. "Is it any less dishonest than a life spent thieving?"

"Ain't claimin' it is. Just, you'd've been killed eventually, or maimed, even strong as you are. I did some work like that myself when I was younger; weren't nothing pretty." Genuine concern colored his voice; he didn't mean to sound like he was chiding him. They all had to do regrettable things to stay alive. He looked at Charles' face and the bruises there, and recalled the way his old scarred hand had been bound when he'd been up in the mountains with them. 

"I know."

He didn't know what to do with the look of blank resignation on Charles face. He wasn't a stoic man, wasn't as numb to the world as many claimed him to be, Arthur knew better than that. Seeing this change, even just a little, distressed him. 

He thought about the way Charles had held him after he'd been hung. The hand on his throat the next day, inspecting the wound, so tender and soft. The way he had smiled when Arthur had leaned in to adjust his tie. God- what he wouldn't have done to just sink into his arms in that very moment. The way he smelled, the way he felt against him, big and strong and ever so steady- Charles, and the way he felt in his company, was the only thing in this world that made any damn sense to him anymore. They sat there for a time, neither meeting the others eyes. Charles shivered. The air was cold from the rain; it chilled them both. 

Arthur thought hard on his options and the possible repercussions of them. Gently, he put one hand on Charles' arm, scooting closer beside him. Their thighs pressed together. "You're cold."

"I'm alright," Charles murmured, glancing sidelong at him. "Are you?"

He didn't know what to say to that. He shifted and, taking what he considered his biggest risk in a very long time, rested his head ever so slightly against Charles' shoulder. The man beside him stilled, but did not move. 

Arthur swallowed. "I'm sorry I didn't come'n find you sooner." 

"You were sick, Arthur." His eyes turned downwards. "Besides, you don't owe me anything." 

"I do. I owe you… I owe you a lot."

Charles shook his head. The rain pattered loudly against the tent. "I haven't done much."

"I've got a lot of regrets, but knowin' you ain't one of them. I don't know. I'm sorry."

"There's nothing to forgive."

"Yes, there is. You're a much better man than I am, Charles, you've always been so good and I don't understand how you do it."

"I try hard. It's not easy as it looks."

"You could've fooled me." 

His tone became more serious. "Why can you see good in me, but never in yourself?"

He balked. Whatever he'd expected him to say, that wasn't it! This wasn't the direction he'd intended the conversation to go. He fumbled with his words, a stutter slipping in. "You- I-" Arthur paused, his original intentions in this conversation well lost to distress. He sighed. "I don't know. Guess I just wanna say I'm sorry." 

He couldn't bring himself to look at Charles when he replied, pressing his cheek against his shoulder. "If it's what you need to hear, I forgive you."

The words felt thick in his throat, his mind fogged by emotion. He was overcome. "You- you _ buried _ me. You buried me, Charles. I weren't even there and you didn't just.. didn't just go on with your life. You stopped and you did a kind thing for me when there weren't a soul to see it. I can't ever repay you for that."

Charles lay his hand on his knee, squeezing gently. "I don't expect you to."

"That's just it, though. It ain't fair. You did this good thing for me, this thing so good I can't barely fathom it-"

"It wasn't… I _ wanted _ to do it-"

"That's not the point. Sorry. That's just- that's not it. You do all these good things for me. You could've avoided danger, steered clear of those night folk that evenin'. Could've gotten the hell out of dodge with the women back in that fuckin' house but you didn't. You stayed and came for me. You saved my goddamn life. You honored it when you thought I lost it and you saved it when I hadn't yet. I don't know, I ain't making any sense, Charles, but."

"...What are you trying to say, Arthur?" 

"I feel guilty for a lot of things. One of them is not ever being more honest with you before I- before I…" _Before_ _I_ _died_, Arthur thought, and looked at Charles, who stared calmly at him, small droplets of rainwater still falling slowly from his hair. The tent felt too small all of a sudden. Arthur looked at the hand on his knee, and knew he loved him. Or at least he hoped it was love; he was certainly trying to make sure it was. It scared him, more than anything.

Earnestly; "Did you ever lie to me?"

"No." Arthur couldn't fathom it. Didn't think he had it in him to lie to him in the first place. "But I ain't told you all I could've."

Charles had that strange look on his face again, his expression unreadable to him. Arthur swallowed dryly, his throat audibly clicking_ . I think I love you, _ but he feared rejection. _ I care about you, _ but it felt too close to the truth and yet too far to suffice. _ I missed you, _ but that was obvious _ . I should have left and helped you all get out so much earlier _ , but shame and regret were not real apologies. _ I should have helped Rains Fall and his people much more, stepped between them and the influence of Dutch- _ but that was something he couldn’t make up for merely with words. _ I shouldn't have left you there, _but Charles would have all sorts of reasonable arguments as to why it was alright, would try to pacify him with the unfortunate circumstances of their life. 

Arthur stared and it felt like he all but bled affection for the man._ I love you _, he wanted to say, and decided maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to just be out with it. He shifted forward in the small space of the tent, setting his hand atop Charles'. He listened attentively, that ever-so-calm expression there on his face.

"I just.. I just think-"

Outside the tent, the loud whinny of a horse rang out. Arthur thought to ignore it at first, thinking it might've been Shoshanah or Taima, but then- 

A bullet tore through the roof of the tent, shooting straight out the other side.

Arthur's ears rang. He and Charles scrambled apart and to attention, guns in hand, ducking their heads low and nearly colliding in their scrape to get their bearings. Something clanged loudly; a horse whinnied again.

"Hey, cowpokes!" 

They exchanged a glance, hands firm on both their holsters. They waited. The voice whistled.

"Show yourselves! C'mon, quit cowerin' in that there tent, get out here!" 

"Alright!" Arthur preemptively put his hands up in surrender, trying to give Charles the most reassuring look he could muster. "Hold on a damn minute." 

"Only thing I'm holdin's this rifle." 

"Jeez." Arthur ducked his head and slowly moved to stand outside the tent, the other man beside him doing the same.

Silence, and the clatter of rain.

"_Arthur_?"

He looked up with a jolt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are so many things I’m not allowed to tell you. (— Richard Siken, from ‘Dirty Valentine’, Crush)


	12. be greedy only for foresight.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "That's not the damn point. Point is- they're gonna come and you're gonna kill 'em, you and Charles, because that's what you gotta do to survive. You ain't gonna bargain with 'em cause grownups don't bargain."
> 
> "The good ones do."
> 
> "It ain't the good ones who's comin' to hunt you."

"I _ did _ say I was sorry about that."

"That don't mend the hole in the damn thing!"

"Learn how to sew! It's about time, now you don't have all the ladies back in camp at your beck 'n call, huh?"

Arthur gave the hole in the tent wall a dubious look. "Anyways."

Charles had to try hard not to laugh out loud.

"_ Anyways. _ Like I was sayin'- Charlotte reckoned you'd be out in these parts."

"Charlotte?" He asked, more curious about the use of her first name than anything else. "How long were you up there with her?"

"Stayed with her round three days," Sadie said, thoughtfully scratching her chin. She was sitting spread eagled on the floor of the tent, taking up far more room than was polite considering the smallness of the space. She didn't seem to give a shit. A few minutes ago she'd been reeling from the reality of seeing Arthur alive again; she must've gotten over it. "We got to know each other real well." 

"Oh, _ now _ I see.."

"Shut up, Arthur."

"I'm just sayin'! She didn't let me call her that 'til I was halfway to dead."

"Can't help your inborn lack of charm."

Their banter was amusing, sure, but curiosity got the better of him. "Let the woman talk." Charles interjected, and it probably would've seemed more indignant were he not smiling.

Sadie propped a hand up on her knee. "We was talkin' about you when we first met, you see, she came up to me in Annesburg after a job askin' my name. Said she lived with a fella drew me a couple times so that she recognized me, that he told her some about me. I brought her back safe to her house, seein' as there was bad folks in the area I was currently huntin'; we talked lots about all sorts of things, but at first mostly just you." She sniffed. "Don't look so flattered! Eugh. Point is she mentioned you was headin' down direction of Saint Denis- she gave me a copy of that newspaper clippin' you had with Mary Beth's book on it."

"Good investigative work, I'll give you that much."

"It's my _j_o_b _, what do you expect?"

"You're doing bounties professionally, then?"

"Sure am. It's good work. Reliable, and the pay's damn good."

Bounty hunting wasn't his style. He'd done it once or twice in his years, yes, but never quite liked the act of working _ for _ the corrupt law rather than against it. Who was he to judge the men they tacked up for hunt, when they would just as quickly do the same to him? Nevertheless, Charles never failed to be impressed by Sadie's skills. Though a little rough around the edges and not at all without her faults, she was a spectacular shot, hotheaded as anyone, and had a bountiful sense of stubborn determination in her. The woman could persevere through anything. It didn't surprise him, really, that she'd found them; once she set her mind to something, it was bound to get done one way or another. "So you left Charlotte's to search for him."

Sadie nodded. "I got to Mary Beth's, but there wasn't a soul at home. I couldn't think where else to search. Checked all the obvious places, saloons, asked around in some backstreets, even the jail!- but no sign of Arthur Morgan. I almost started wonderin' Charlotte might've made it up." 

"And then I see this sign, there inside the jail. _ Dead or Alive _ : two anonymous masked men _ wanted _ for armed robbery, trespassing, defacement of property and _ multiple homicide _. All in a nice rich lady's house, with a body count of eleven folks, includin' three maids. So yeah, a bad one, a real bad bounty with a real high price. I thought I might as well take it, needed the money." 

The hairs on the back of Charles' neck rose; his spine straightened, posture tense. A bounty out for them wouldn't warrant well for their likelihood of getting out of the area unnoticed, especially not if Sadie had already managed to track them this far. He cursed his own lack of tact- somewhere along the way they'd gotten hopelessly sloppy, probably sidetracked by the rush of the past days and too absorbed in worries over the future. They must've left a trail miles long. "Damnit."

"I didn't find y'all easily. You're lucky I said no, when the Sheriff offered a posse to go along with a group of folks to hunt y'all down. I don't work in groups no more. They don't work with women, besides."

"So there's a group coming."

"Maybe. If so, they're far behind me."

"But they can't be _ that _ far," Arthur said, his brows furrowed. 

"Guess not."

The three sat in silence for a moment, all trying hard to make sense of all this. Charles was the first to break the silence. "How many?"

"Most likely half a dozen, I think, could be more. I didn't stick around very long."

"We can't stay here long."

Arthur cast a wary glance out the partially open flap of the tent, watching as the rain still poured down in sheets. "It's gettin' late and it'll be a bitch to ride through this rain, but I guess we could still head out soon if needin' to."

Sadie shook her head. "The rain should clear y'all's tracks and keep 'em off you just a little longer. Could stay the night and ride out early tommorow, miss the rain, you'd have time enough. They should be a little more'n a day out behind me, if they're even good enough to track this far." 

Charles hummed thoughtfully. The likelihood of being found was high, but the plan wasn't bad. The horses needed rest, not to mention the three of them, and the rain _ would _ wash away some of their tracks. "If there are as many men tracking us as you say there are, at least one's bound to be good." 

"Now, the two of you better tell me what the hell kind of mess you got yourselves into.

> °

They stayed settled in the tent, huddled under the blankets and furs which had not yet been drenched by the relentless storm. Thunder rolled overhead in a percussion which could be heard and felt with every grumble; lightning flashed periodically in the distance. 

"Oh, goddamnit."

The oil lamp illuminated their faces, casting strange shadows over the bridges of their noses and over their clothes. Arthur hissed in frustration as he dropped a couple coins down beside the stack of playing cards. Arthur's hair was dripping rainwater down his face; he'd been the one forced to go out and tend to the horses. "Your luck never ends," Charles quipped, trying hard to suppress his grin. 

Arthur scowled.

"Don't kick a man while he's down."

Sadie triumphantly slapped her hand down over the coins, pulling them into her lap. They played for a few minutes more until she seemed to remember something, head snapping up. "You told me all the crazy shit that happened to you back in Saint Denis, but you ain't told me a lick of y'all's plan goin' forward." 

Charles barely even knew which direction forward was anymore. Arthur didn't reply right away, leaving him to the responsibility. He sucked on his teeth, shrugging. "I don't know."

"That ain't no answer."

"It's all I've got."

"Come on. Throw a bored woman a bone."

"Sorry we're _ borin' _ you, Miss Adler," Arthur snorted. Sadie sneered playfully at him. 

Where were they headed? Was it really _ they _, or just Arthur, and him, bound to split along the way? He shuffled the deck of cards once more. "I guess we're just trying to get far away from Saint Denis, right now. We need the law off our trail. Maybe some work and hunting along the way to get by. Beyond that I can't say." 

"Together?"

He squinted at the cards, unsure of what she was getting at, what response she was looking for. He shrugged again. Arthur still didn't reply. He tried hard to settle on something neutral. 

"For now, at least." 

> °

Daylight came too quickly. The sun split the clouds in a blinding announcement that the storm had gone by; the ground was covered with mud, the air thick with fog. The coverage would do them good. Charles took a bit of time fetching water for their canteens; the river was clean and clear, the water level high thanks to the flood of rain. He ran his hands over the surface, watching the ripples roll out and away across the water. Then he dutifully filled his, Sadie, and Arthur’s canteens, holding one in his elbow as he twisted the cap on, slowly making his way back to camp. 

"I missed you, you know."

He froze, standing under the craggy cliff that separated the camp from the pond. The conversation was just close enough for him to make out, but not so close that they could see him. 

"Oh, I know. I missed you too." Sadie replied, and paused. "Don't tell anyone."

He swayed uneasily from one foot to the other, unsure if he should be listening in like this. Eavesdropping wasn’t something he prided himself on doing.

"How are things between you and Charles? Must be different, just the two of you out here on the _ lone range _ together."

"You make it sound like a dime novel."

"Just wait ‘til I tell Charlotte, maybe it will be soon."

"You're a nuisance, you know that? Almost as bad as Sean."

"That's impossible." A pause, again. Sadie huffed. "Answer my question."

"... It's been nice. It's been really damn nice.”

"I'm glad. He's a good man, Charles."

"The best."

Charles couldn’t help the smile on his face, holding the canteens closer to his chest.

“Y'all gotten to talk a lot about all that you saw back in the city? It sounded bad."

"Just awful. I've never seen anything like it. Inhuman things- _ monsters _like that."

"Not all of ‘em sounded bad though. That-- what's her name, Francine?- seemed nice, the way Charles talked about her."

"He liked her.” Arthur didn’t reply for a second- something thudded on the ground, muffled. “I did too, you're right, not all of ‘em was bad. Just a little.. different."

"It's tough sometimes dealing with the different."

"Mm."

Sadie was quiet then. Charles wondered if he should go back now, make his presence known. He didn't know what to make of the conversation, or if he had the right to be making anything of it if he wasn't a participant in the first place. He felt like nothing more than a no-good eavesdropper for a second, due for a good tongue lashing by the likes of Miss Grimshaw. But there were no sharp old women around to make him feel childish and small, or to chide him for the simple human impulse of wanting to listen in on an exchange. 

"I don't know what to make of him sometimes. One minute he's smilin' at me and tellin' me the most interesting stories- did I tell you what he taught me about hunting buffalo? I did? And the things he taught me on archery- I'd be dead by now weren't it for him and the skills he helped me with. But then- then the next he's so closed off.. he's a quiet man."

He didn’t want to interrupt. He looked around him; there wasn’t really anywhere else to go, to avoid listening to this or disturbing the conversation. He realized then he felt just a bit giddy, too, to have heard Arthur's thoughts of him, seeing as he so often stewed on the subject in the quiet and private recesses of his mind. Who did not feel some little jolt of glee to hear what another person thought of you? Most of all when that person was one you held such strong affections for? He felt silly. He liked it, just a little.

"Look who's talking."

"I ain't-"

"Go on, go on."

Arthur sighed audibly. "I think sometimes it's hard to read him. But we get along so well, I must assume he don't have the same troubles with me as I do with him. Which I don't understand one bit."

"Troubles?"

"Well, it's hard to get what he's feelin’. He's quiet about it unless you ask, and even then sometimes. But my troubles is different. They're not interestin' or sympathetic and still he don't seem bothered to hear of 'em."

"That's what friends are for, Arthur."

Arthur hummed.

"I know he likes you. It's _ obvious _! Y'all are unbearable and yet-!"

Arthur laughed, that deep and wheezy, genuine laugh that never failed to bring at least the slightest smile to Charles’ face. It worked; he was full of glee. Though, of course, on Charles calm face it would be read as little more than perhaps slight contentment. 

"-and yet, you ain't killed each other yet and that's somethin', that's really somethin'."

"If the bars _ that _ low, well.."

"Most folks these days seem to have it out to kill you, so, hey. It's somethin'."

Arthur sighed again. He could almost see it in his mind, the man swiping a hand over his face, head shaking- and he did envision it, seeing all of it just like he had in his memories and daydreams, thinking precisely of Arthur's little tics and habits, some of which annoyed him terribly and some of which delighted him. Some, too, which did both.

"I'm worried, Sadie. Really, what did you think you were gettin' yourself into doing bounty work?"

"What you mean by that?"

"It's risky."

He could hear her snort from here. "It's my life."

"Does Charlotte know?"

"What? Why the hell would her opinion matter?"

"It does."

"It's my life," Sadie repeated.

"Y'really never wanna settle down, huh." 

"Not like I did before. Not like with Jake."

"This ain't your only option."

"Don't condescend me, Arthur, you're doin' the same thing as I am."

Quiet. Charles swallowed, staring out at the water. 

Sadie's tone was more stern this time. "If bounty huntin's so risky then why'd half our camp funds come from your bounty collections?"

"It's different."

"Cause I'm more fragile, or what?"

"Nah. No, it ain't that. It's just that.. it's stupid. I don't know."

"Out with it, just say it."

"I thought by doin’ what I did I'd be buyin' us all a ticket to a more honest life, I guess."

"My life _ is _ honest. I answer personally to the law. My _ paychecks _ got government credentials! It's legitimate work."

"Only legitimate work I ever done was money lendin', and it was the _ dirtiest _ business I ever done.." Arthur trailed off. He coughed. "Among the biggest mistakes of my life. And I've made plenty."

"I've got to live. I can't just go back to bein' a damn ranch wife. Bounty work gives me some independence, self sufficiency."

"It's still money off a killin'."

"What are we gonna do with these bounty hunters when they come our way, huh, Arthur?"

"You don't need to stay, you already helped us by warnin' us."

"That's not the damn point. Point is- they're gonna come and you're gonna kill 'em, you and Charles, because that's what you gotta do to survive. You ain't gonna bargain with 'em cause grownups don't bargain."

"The good ones do."

"It ain't the good ones who's comin' to hunt you."

> °

Something in the forest felt wrong. 

It was different here, not quite as dense and daunting as the Bayou, but it didn't make it any less heart-pounding to be chased through. The gang had lived long enough in Murfree territory to know that a place _ looking _ innocent didn't always mean it _ was _. Not to mention that the woods up in these parts never seemed to end. You could see, at some points, the mountains off in the far distance raging up into the sky- but they felt far off and untouchable. The air was clean, clear and light; the sun shone in patterned speckles through the trees as they swayed quietly overhead. The man's guttural roar as he tugged Charles to the ground was deafeningly loud. 

"Fuck!" He cried out, trying to wrangle the man off of him. Charles' heart pounded in his chest. The world folded inwards into just that moment; the sun, high in the clear blue sky, the crushing pressure on his chest, the way the air smelled fresh and light, and the knife pressed to his throat. Gunshots rang out all around them. He shoved at the man's arms with all the force he could muster, trying as best he could to shove him bodily off of him but he just couldn't do it, for once his strength was not enough. The man's breath stank of whiskey, and his clothes clung tight to his bulky form. His shoulders were wide. His eyes were cold. He didn't care who he was killing so long he got paid. Judging from the passion with which he sawed downwards, he may even have enjoyed the kill. He was giddy, breathing hard.

His arms trembled furiously. Charles' breath fogged the man's crooked glasses- they tumbled off his face and almost struck Charles in the nose, him dodging them just barely. They wrangled on the ground, both panting, a pure game of stamina now more than anything. The fight was awkward and stilted, as all fights tended to be, but violent nonetheless. 

The breath flew out of him when the man's blood poured onto his chest. 

A gasp was all it took, and the man slumped; for all the force he'd been applying it was nothing compared to the pressure of his dead weight, hunched over and limp thanks to the bullet hole in his skull. The world spun on its axis, and everything smelled like gunpowder and metal. He wrinkled his nose, shoving hard to get the dead body off from on top of him, trying to roll to one side-

Then Arthur was by him, throwing the corpse aside like a bag of oats, a desperate look on his face. He scanned Charles up and down, a hand on his shoulder, pulling him up and inspecting every inch of him with that same fear etched permanently into his face. 

"It's not mine," Charles reassured, breathing heavily as he weakly wiped the blood off his face with the back of his arm. Another couple gunshots rang out in quick succession; Arthur flinched, curling inwards towards Charles for only a second. 

"Damn you!" Sadie cursed, this time not so far off as before. Somewhere from the left, up and over the hill that blocked their view of the road, presumably, if his hearing wasn't miserably failing him. Thud, _ thud _, thud, something hammered far away, someone screamed in a cry so horrible his blood curdled and Charles bit the inside of his cheek hard, tasting metal.

"Don't _touch_ _me_!" 

Just so fast they were up and over the hill, ducking and covering periodically behind trees and rocks as they went closer and closer to the source of the noise and- there. There was Sadie, gory and gruesome and hollering as she slammed the butt of her gun furiously into the skull of the bounty hunter.

Charles didn't know how to help. Arthur, though, looked unfazed all of a sudden, calmly approaching her as though this were the most normal thing in the world. As if he'd seen it before. Like he understood. His steps were quiet enough not to threaten but loud enough not to frighten, and his hands were held out in front of him, waist height, palms upturned; "Sadie," he urged, in the softest intonation of his voice, "_ Sadie _, it's alright. He's dead. You did it. We got to go." 

She snapped her head up. Her brown face was stained red, nose marred by a new scar. Sadie Adler looked exhausted, distraught, and just a touch proud. Her hair stood on all ends, pulled out of its braids in some places. She seemed excited to have defended herself, and to have triumphed over the attacker. The trees and bushes rustled overhead, the sounds of distant footsteps and the yells of men coming closer over the hills. Charles aimed his gun, ducking, ready to cover for them at a moment's notice. 

"Okay," Sadie managed, standing straight. The man's body beneath her bled out, the red making her boots stick to the sludge of the muddy forest floor. She took a deep breath and steeled herself, shaking herself out from head to toe. Her eyes were still frantic but her movements controlled. She and Arthur took cover side by side behind a rock not far from him. He laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder; she shook it off after a minute.

"How many more?" Charles asked hoarsely. 

"Looked like it was a group of eight, we got about three of 'em." Arthur had a gun in each hand, eyes focused on the hill. Charles clicked the safety. Sadie tensed.

A lawman came flying down the hill on horseback.

His left hand went first- he flinched back with a yelp, then a shot through the throat had him sliding backwards off the horse. She ran off past them, ricocheting into the forest. His body lay bent in a way bodies shouldn't. Two were peering over the hillside when it happened, both witnesses only seconds before they became victims, disappearing from sight again with splashes of red and the sounds of death. Arthur reloaded. 

Sadie got the next one with a bullet to the gut. He clung to his middle and scrambled to stay on horseback, coughing violently, swaying to and fro as his horse bucked and whinnied wildly. His foot slipped from the saddle; he died mid-air, not even conscious for the impact. 

The last man stood on the cliff and watched as it all happened. His wide brimmed hat shadowed him from the light, obscuring his features, his expression. Charles aimed. The man turned and walked away slowly, disappearing back into the forest.

> °

The trees were gnarled and the ground so thick with animal tracks that they were nearly indiscernible in some places. It smelled powerfully sweet, like damp earth and moss. There was something bitter and sour to the air, too, the kind of smell that didn't wash well out if clothes or hair. 

Retreating deeper into the woods had been Arthur's idea; take to the trees and there will be less open space to risk a shot in the spine. But as much as the forest offers space to hide, it offers the same to those who you may be hiding from. It's a game of Russian roulette, it's a goddamn _ balancing act _ and they are standing precariously on the bar, waiting to see who might fall first. 

_ Snap _. Something scuttled by on the forest floor not far from his feet- a rat, maybe, a squirrel, and Arthur nearly shot up from his seat on a log in his surprise, hand instinctively flying to his holster. Sadie snorted. "Don't worry, you're more afraid of him than he is of you," she quipped, and Arthur sneered.

Really, they weren't even sure if there was anyone left to pursue them. The man who had retreated and the missing, unkilled men may have simply fled back to the cities, to their beds and to the comfort of a roof overhead and guns holstered or tucked away in under-bed lockboxes. But the three of them couldn't take the risk of depending on maybe's. 

“What about this one?” Sadie asked.

Overhead a full moon hung low in the sky, still, suspended in wait. The sun was still out just across from it, the moons outline nothing but a dim shadow among the clouds. Arthur chewed and spat his tobacco, frowning. “No. That one’s absolutely no good for eatin’.”

"You really think so?"

"I goddamn know so." Arthur pointed accusingly to the bushel of berries Sadie had in hand. "Those'll give you a rash like nothin' you ever seen." 

She huffed. "Charles, is he right?"

"I'm right!"

He was pulled from his reverie, hands halting as he fletched an arrow. He squinted. "Mm.. yeah. He's right. Deceptive though, got the better of me too once."

Sadie seemed somehow triumphant in the response, puffing up her chest as she tossed the bushel somewhere off outside their little camp.

He sat hunched forward, sinking deeper and deeper into his own thoughts. Were they still being hunted? Where had those other men gone, those that fled the scene and those who didn't show themselves at all> Arthur had asked him later why he didn't shoot the man on the hill. The answer was easy. Charles doesn't shoot men who are on the ground already, and neither does he shoot unarmed people, or those with their back turned.

You'd have to be truly spineless to do that. But just because they left didn't mean they wouldn't come back. From Charles' experience, a life lost always cost something. A man could only rarely see a brother in arms fall and do _ nothing _. He didn't believe in all that kill or be killed nonsense- that mindset only led to mindless destruction. Rather, he had a firm sense that if one killed someone, one must anticipate to be killed in return. An exchange of result, you could say. 

He hissed, having cut his thumb on the arrow. The things you get for not paying attention.

Arthur peered over at him, concern pinching his brow. "You good?"

He sucked quickly at the injury, shaking his head. "I'm good, Arthur."

The other man didn't look away for a long time, leveling him with a steady, calm stare. Charles wasn't used to being looked at like that, or much at all; quiet men know how to blend in. To most people, Charles Smith was as notable as the wallpaper. Or at least that was what he wanted. He didn't like being _known_ like that, being seen. 

Silence lay steadily against the wood and still branches of the forest. The three went about their business, Sadie sensibly restocking firewood, Arthur whittling away at the head of a tent-stake, and Charles fletching, still, his arrow, the feather of which did not flutter or move an inch thanks to the strange lack of breeze. Charles felt caged in, unwilling to speak, itching to be alone. 

The night turned dark; the fire weakened. They planned to roast some kind of pheasant that Arthur had proudly presented to them several hours before. They did not speak much. There was little to be spoken of. The woods stank of mold, damp and earthy. 

"We need more firewood," Arthur huffed, kicking at the already meagre flame which spat pathetic sparks into the air. "I'll-"

"I'll go cut some," Charles interjected. He scuffed his boot in the dirt, standing quickly. "I'll go." 

A bird flew quickly overhead, then. It was desperate and hurried, nearly careening into Sadie's hat when she stood up to stretch; she grabbed the top of it, holding it firmly to her head. "The hell…." She muttered, stomping out her cigarette in a huff. 

Arthur just looked at him long and hard, gaze flicking between him and the fire, chewing on his thoughts. He gave up. "Sure."

"Think you'll have any luck?" Sadie asked, squinting into the treeline. "It's rained so much."

He unsheathed the axe from his belt, hefting it once in his hand before turning towards the woods. "I'll try."

One carefully calculated step at a time, Charles walked deeper into the woods.

He still couldn't tear his mind away from what they had seen back in Northcote Manor. He wasn't sure he'd ever shake it off. Where had they come from? Neither of his parents really had the chance to teach him any folklore on the creatures, and he'd certainly not sat around enough campfires to hear it elsewhere. What was it about them that made them so terrible to witness, and yet so.. fascinating?

Now maybe if they really _ were _ wolves it wouldn't be half so frightening, nor half as dangerous. All animals need to stop. They get hot, they get tired, they need to quit, to sit and pant and shake out the day but humans- humans don't stop. Humans endure. Humans push and push, hunting unrelentingly, stopping only when the prey is keeled over and yawning and the _ human _\- always the human- can simply jog over and strike it dead with a rock. It's just that simple and just that brutal. So the combination of wolf and man was what really intimidated him; when would they stop? Was their stamina balanced at all by their ruthless hunger? Was that desire to kill ever quelled by the desire to sit and rest and wait for the body to recuperate, or did it just keep going?

There was something human in their long, doglike faces, and in the way they _ shambled _ more than anything, the hulking breadth of their shoulders so wide that it only accentuated every abrupt jerk of their abnormal bodies. He thought about how Manon Northcote had sat atop him snorting like a hog or a horse, and how close she had come to killing him in that moment.

_ Crack _. A possum came careening out of the woods, shooting across his path and back into the depths of the black trees. 

The air smelled of cologne, rotting meat, and wet dog.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where is what I started for so long ago?  
And why is it yet unfound?” — (from “Facing West from California’s Shore,” Children of Adam, Walt Whitman.)


	13. you want punishment.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was born into this sense of shame- it was raised into him. The tears did not come, stopped up and choked back. His grief clogged his lungs like the suppressive cling of heavy, wet clothing.

Branches crunched and cracked close to camp; the woods rustled. Arthur shot to his feet. He squinted into the darkness of the trees, one hand holding his gun at the ready and the other held uneasily before him. Sadie tensed across the fire from him, ready as she always was.

The urge to call out _ hello _ was powerful, but he was smarter than to announce their presence to just anyone. Or- any _ thing _. Charles was taking far too long to come back, his anxiety growing more and more difficult to ignore as the still moments ticked by, coming to a grueling climax only now that it was obvious they were not alone. He shifted slightly forward, squinting into the darkness.

Utter stillness. Like a lake finally settling into itself after a rock broke the surface. Still. Smoothing out. Arthur squared himself. Those animals had been running from something. He wondered, briefly, if they should have joined them. 

Charles stood in the space between the trees, and then he was not standing at all.

The distance was too great for Arthur to catch him before he hit the ground. By sheer luck, he landed on a patch of muck and moss, soft as a pillow- but perhaps not so soft on a head wound. That seemed most likely judging by the large pool of blood which trickled into the dirt and clung to his hair, originating from his upper right side just above the forehead. It was a little hard to tell among all the mess. In the moonlight, it looked more black than red. He scrambled to kneel beside him, hands hovering fearfully over his body. 

"Where's he hurt?" Sadie demanded, skidding over to kneel on the other side of him. Charles came back to his senses after what must've been around thirty seconds, weakly blinking, hands twitching. He shut his eyes, groaning; he must have had a killer headache. Arthur grimaced. She unbuttoned his shirt, checking- there was nothing of concern. The two rolled up his sleeves on both sides, finding nothing more concerning than some small cuts and lacerations, knuckles cracked open, surely destined to bruise. All normal for a fight. Whatever he faced out there had been horrible, but it had not torn into him.

"Is anyone comin'?" Arthur asked, urgently scanning the outskirts of camp, one hand holding Charles' head injury with all the force he could muster without hurting him. It must've hurt an awful lot with the way he gasped, but the bleeding was intense. It needed to stop. 

"No." He coughed harshly. "Nobody." 

Anything could have happened to him out there. Now, seeing him in this condition, Arthur realized just how dire or fatal it could be. He could have broken a bone or sprained a joint, torn a ligament or- 

Charles put a heavy hand on his forearm. "Help me up."

The fact he could speak at all was a good sign. Giving him what he needed, he and Sadie put in mutual effort to heave him to his feet. He was not a small man but as in most things they managed and managed well, getting him securely back to his own bedroll, which Sadie tried to spare from the blood by throwing down an old fur. Dizzy and trembling from the shock, Charles mumbled something unintelligible as he slowly lowered his head down to rest. 

He said it again, then, struggling a bit to articulate through the frustration. He enunciated forcefully, biting the words out with a scowl; "The werewolves. Ephraim Ackley…"

Now it all made sense.

There was ugliness and shame to every injury. The prone man seemed to curl in on himself just slightly, hands flying up again and again to protect himself with every touch he felt. Arthur remained knelt by him, applying pressure. He was gentle with him. Charles- well, he couldn't be anything _ but _ gentle with him.

Arthur couldn't figure just why the werewolves existed, when the border between man and wolf began to blur. But he assumed it must have been just as gruesome as every time come to follow. It must have hurt, and it must have been very, very exciting.

He wondered what the werewolves really wanted. Had they come just for blood? Was it the pleasure of the hunt? Arthur couldn't bear being ignorant of the truth this time. He lived years of his life seeing the worst things imaginable and yet still felt sheltered; like he'd seen it all through glass. Grown up in a jar, with the lid twisted on very tightly. So he tensed up and asked; "Why'd they hunt us down?"

Charles didn't seem to like the question much- or at least he didn't see the point in it, drawing back with his brows furrowed in something between confusion and annoyance. The kind of face one might pull when a child asked why the sky was blue, or why wheels turned. They just do. That's just what they do. It's nature, it's fact, you can't read it in a book because you're born knowing. Arthur felt a little embarrassed. "They wanted to."

He didn't really have the right to be incredulous about it. _ What did we ever do to them _ didn't really apply, but neither did guilt. As much as they deserved what they'd gotten, they were still human- most of the time. They had the right to be angry, and to seek vengeance. Wasn't that what he once missed? The Wild West, and all the vengeance that came with it? Now that Arthur saw the repercussions of its violence, he couldn't help but realize that it didn't sound all that appealing anymore. Sadie gently poured water and soap on the wound, rubbing it with a washcloth, but it did little to staunch the bleeding. Quickly opening his satchel, he pulled out what meagre medical supplies he had on him, as well as anything that might be cleverly constructed into something like it. 

The moment they ceased speaking, a quiet seemed to descend on their pocket of the woods. A quiet so stifling it felt like his head was being wrapped in wool. Arthur didn't like the quiet very much; it always felt tense and predictable, like it wouldn't last any longer than a cheap boot and it would come to a generally alarming, inconvenient, and entirely expected end. Uneasiness crept into him, but he knew realistically that there was nothing to be frightened for or of; Charles would never leave unfinished business with something dangerous, especially not at the cost of his friends. He tried to absorb himself in the steady, patient work or staunching the bleeding of the wound. It was more a laceration than a cut, really, possibly from a blunt thing or from being pushed against something. Maybe struck in the head with a head or a big, meaty paw. Not unlikely. 

He thought of a joke, then, a terrible one, huffing harshly out his nose rather than laughing, trying hard to stifle the laughter while he stifled the blood. 

Charles squinted dimly at him. "What's so funny?"

"Nothin'."

"Humor a dying man."

Through the hazy pain of the migraine he almost thought he saw Charles grin- had he not been injured already, he might have punched his arm. 

"You and John Marston've got a little more in common now."

"And what's that?"

"All messed up by a dog."

"Plural." A snort. "And mine were bigger." 

"Well aren't you humble." They settled into easy, quiet laughter that was just about to taper off when Arthur had the realization that it would be an awfully good idea to keep him talking. They may have to wake him up from time to time when he did choose to sleep, to check for the worsening of symptoms. He adopted a stuffy, nasal voice, clearly imitating upon his limited knowledge the voice of an east coast Doctor. "Mr. Smith, it seems you've gotten yourself a rather _ nasty _ wound here, what a _ shame _. It'll presumably-" he enunciated the word with such force that Charles couldn't help but swat his arm, "scar. But I have have terrible, unfortunate news, it's gon'- it's gonna be a little one. If you're wanting for another, you know, go ask for more and maybe you can match Mr. Marston sometime soon.."

"Leave the poor man alone, y'nuisance," Sadie chided, somewhere between a laugh and a scoff as she shoved Arthur bodily aside. She double checked the bandage wrapped around Charles' head, ensuring it wouldn't slip much if at all while he slept.

Now, Charles having been wiped clean of all the blood that hadn't stained and the wound bound and staunched, Arthur mournfully and abruptly realized he no longer had any excuse to be touching Charles, nor, really, to be so close at all. With a habitual nervousness that was becoming increasingly difficult to disguise he asked, "Are you good?"

Charles wiped at his face and pressed down against his eyes with the heels of both hands, just for a second. He breathed deep and then looked up at him sincerely. "Good as I can be."

°

Sadie didn't seem quite ready to leave, the day she decided to do so.

The week had passed without much turmoil, besides perhaps for Charles' stubborn insistence that he didn't need to be nurtured back to health, and Sadie's occasional harsh quip, the kinds which either sparked frustration or a booming laugh in Arthur. Sometimes both at once. None of it helped Charles with the headaches very much. 

Despite their little conversational scuffles, he had always gotten along very well with Sadie. He loved her as he did most of the gang; she was a special person. She had seemed lighter on her feet every day she spent with them, even despite the ever-present tension of their run from the bounty hunters. It must have been a relief to be in the company of good men, men she could trust and rely on to do her no harm and to offer her that hard-earned respect. He couldn't imagine how it must've been to be in her position. Traumatized, separated from the group she'd attached herself to in the wake of her loss, left to wander. It surprised him, though, how well she had come to terms with it. Sadie Adler was nothing if not adaptable, capable of enduring any hardship which might dare swing her way. Loneliness was something she had grown accustomed to. That much Arthur could tell; it had grown on her like rust or mold, attached itself and leeched from her passion and energy with every day she went unaccompanied. 

Nonetheless. The road called; responsibility and the need for work tempted her elsewhere. Arthur tried to tempt her into joining them, wherever they might be going or whatever they might be doing- likewise she tried to tempt him and Charles to stay in Roanoke Ridge and join her on her bounty hunts. Neither could be swayed to accept. 

"Suppose you're needed elsewhere."

Arthur felt just as mournful now as he had before, watching Tilly and Karen drive off.

"Mm. I never did finish that job up in Annesburg." Sadie adjusted her hat with a thoughtful look, chewing on a cigarette as she scratched her chin. She grinned down at the two of them, looking an awful lot more excited than he'd seen her in a very long time. "Maybe I'll have to go pay Charlotte a visit." 

Abruptly, Arthur held up a hand, the other digging quickly into his satchel until he came upon what he was looking for. He procured a thick manila envelope, full to the brim with several letters. With a nod, he passed them urgently up to her. "I haven't had the chance to mail 'em myself, seein' as we- well. If you really is gonna go up there and see her please, bring her these. Or mail them if you get the chance. Either way, I.. give her my best regards." 

The woman nodded. She looked proud and strong, now, well cleaned up after their scrape with those men. Surprisingly, she'd allowed Charles to help her re-braid her hair. With her wide hat on her head and her jacket only adding to the strong line of her shoulders, she looked like a real gunslinger, a hero on horseback. The letters were gently tucked away into her own satchel. She saluted them, then, and must have sensed the oncoming wave of emotion as the two said their goodbyes because all at once she waved and said, "Bye, fellas. You two stay safe out there." 

And then she was gone.

The sky settled into a cool pink as she rode off and up towards Annesburg. 

"I'll miss her."

"Me too."

Their hands brushed. They went no further, standing still, shoulder to shoulder. The air itself felt heavy.

"Charles?"

"Mm?"

Arthur couldn't help but feel the unpleasant twinge of loss in his chest as he thought over the circumstances. He most likely wouldn't see Tilly or Mary-Beth ever again. He hadn't gotten the opportunity to see Karen for more than but a brief time, his shock at her well-being still not having worn off completely. Now Sadie was gone, too. He shook his head. "I'm glad you're alright."

At least he had Charles. For now.

> **°**

There were no gallows in Van Horn. 

He supposed that was only to be expected of a trading post- what need was there for such a nasty ritual in a place where people only passed through briefly? Then again, any place where trades were made and.goods transported was breeding ground for conflict. Arthur wondered why they hadn't thought to do more business in these parts. When folks here looked at him, they passed over his face without the scarcest hint of recognition or suspicion. He figured maybe it was a good thing they'd come through here so rarely.

He wondered about the population of the city if it could be called that. By population, he meant how many visited and _ stayed _. It mustn't have been many. Down the road a woman was rushing a child into a house, furiously scrubbing at his dirty face with the worn fabric of her apron. There wasn't much to hate about the place, besides perhaps for the dark memories attached to it, but that was his personal issue. Maybe it could be attributed to the fact that there simply wasn't much of Van Horn to start with. It was just one long, dusty street, and he chided his nerves with that fact as he and Charles slowly rode through town. 

Everything seemed to have been out together just a little haphazardly and with the mild contemptuous haste of underpaid workers and busy to-be residents who had better things to do. Boards and planks hung loosely off the sides of some houses, some windows peppered with dirt, obscured by foggy, cheap glass. Arthur noted just how alert Charles seemed to be; he turned his head to and fro as they rode, slowly and thoroughly taking in their surroundings which, in Arthur's biased opinion, weren't all that much to look at. He took his time, letting Shoshanah and Arthur match his and Taima's very slow trot, himself taken with the birds that flitted fast overhead and taking quick, repetitive glances out towards the water. 

Arthur cleared his throat. "If you want, we can stop 'n go have a look at the shore."

"After we check in," Charles said, ever the sensible one. He visibly perked up, though, urging Taima on only but a little bit faster in the direction of the center of the city.

Two burly men crossed the road with sacks of flour slung over their shoulder. Nearby, another made his way down to the shore, struggling to untangle the massive net he held as he went. Somewhere in the distance, the quiet sound of a piano played. Arthur adjusted his hat, trying hard to stay focused on their purpose here. "Hey, how about's you go get the room in the hotel, and I can already start lookin' around the store."

"You remember everything we need?"

Arthur tapped the side of his head. "Got it all stored up here."

"That's what I'm worried about."

Taima huffed when Charles turned her away and towards the hotel, laughing, saying simply over his shoulder "I'll see you soon, Arthur," and started on his way. 

Arthur himself couldn't grasp why he felt so flattered, having just been insulted. Was he flattered? What could explain the strange flutter of excitement he'd felt in him, that jump in pulse? He chalked it up to the silly and easily appeased loneliness of his crotchety old man self, quickly trying to focus and recall what they actually _ were _ here to collect in the way of supplies. They were low on stocks of food, mostly, though in reality their saddlebags were lighter than they ought to have been in all regards, particularly, at the moment, in medicine and bandages. Knowing their track record so far he reckoned he'd best stock up good on those. He suddenly wished that he knew what kind of treat, candy or gift would bring a smile to Charles' face. The damn man never really spoke about his material interests. Knowing him he'd probably be utterly delighted by something very practical, like a handy little knife or a set of tools for whittling. One could probably give him a goddamn hammer and he'd be overjoyed- that meaning, of course, _ overjoyed _ in the manner which Charles expressed such emotion, meaning he'd give you a firm nod and a good favor. 

Hitching up Shoshanah, Arthur pondered what kind of child Charles must have been. He figured he was very sweet when very small; probably hung off his mother in most regards, the endearing and gentle type. As he grew, though- well, from what he'd understood his youth had been rough, so he might have been one of those cryptic children who seemed not to want to play much with toys and tolerated no babytalk. He'd probably simply stared at any strangers who tried to bribe a smile out of him. Had he been such a thief and bandit as Arthur himself? He couldn't have been even half as wild as John was, he lacked the natural disposition of a rabid raccoon and possessed considerably better hygiene. That _ mean streak _ was missing.

Arthur realized abruptly that he didn't know about his childhood because he had simply never asked. He'd probably tell him, if he asked. He should ask.

He wondered, sometimes, whether Charles liked traveling with him, and if he had yet to drive the poor man crazy. As much as Arthur loved Hosea, John and Dutch, traveling in close quarters with any of them in the wrong conditions at times made him want to chew his own leg off. Would it bother him if Arthur more frequently asked questions about his life? Would it seem invasive? Or would it be regarded as warm, welcome curiosity? 

The shop door creaked loudly as he stepped in. 

"Good afternoon!" said the shopkeeper, and he flashed her a friendly smile.

> **°**

It wasn’t Micah who he was beating.

Arthur knew from the start it wasn’t. Knew from the off-kilter slant of the man’s beard to the dark, deep brown of his eyes, to the way he spoke in his own distinctive accent. His voice wasn’t half so gruff. He supposed, though, that all men looked relatively the same with a pair of hands around their throat.

The man beneath him writhed and kicked, desperately swinging punches, trying to get out from underneath him but Arthur’s broad build tells no lies of his strength. They grappled like wild animals, all huff and blind cursing. He took an elbow to the ribs, so hard it knocked the wind out of him. He was heavy, and he was hurt- he was hurt, he was wounded and he had to get out. Getting out was the only option and the only goal, now, all this fighting just leading up to a mutually desperate struggle to flee, to escape the dues of what he’d done and the terror mirrored there in that mud-caked face beneath him, stained with blood, the man with his one hand gripping the forearm that held him down, the other holding the hand that clutched his throat in a desperate plea not to be killed by it. 

He looked at the man below him and was filled with a lurching sensation of nausea. He saw Downes, beneath him, Thomas Downes half dead by sickness and posing to cough that disease right into him-

Everything moved too fast, then. There were hands on Arthur’s shirt, hauling him backwards as the other went for his own hand, gripping his wrist firmly as he flinched and, twitching, let go of the throat it held. Yells filled the air; he dimly heard the bartender banning him for life. 

They scrambled back together, Charles’ arms firm around him as he tugged him up to stand, pulling him back and away to the porch of the hotel across the road. His boots found no grip on the wood stairs; the world swayed. He would’ve fallen had it not been for the strength of the arms that kept him going. Through the blur of panicked drunkenness he saw Charles thrust a handful of coins towards the manager before forcefully pushing Arthur back and up the stairs towards the room they'd rented.

The door slammed behind them. Arthur swayed in place.

“What happened.”

"I…"

"I heard the yelling. What happened?"

The guilt that always came after a beating now struck hard. It never hurt the same twice; every hurt inflicted was a different kind of hurt experienced. He felt guilty for his own pain, and the panic which now clouded his senses and made it so hard to breathe. He had no right to be upset as the instigator, the perpetrator. Arthur’s stomach clenched with nausea. It’d been a long time since he’d reacted to violence of any kind in this way; maybe it was the haze of drunkenness and the man’s similarity to Micah which were at fault, this time, being as those were the memories which most often threw him into the most visceral of his nightmares. 

Hosea’s face flashed through his mind, sending him momentarily back to when he’d been not a day older than fifteen, a knife in hand, forearms slathered in viscera from the first human being he’d ever killed. _ It’ll be alright _, he’d said then, but he was wrong. Hosea was wrong. 

Arthur was sat down on a wooden chair by the wall, still covered in filth, blood, muck and whatever else. He knew he was a mess. Knew he looked ugly, and mean. Knew he was wrong.

"Your shirt is filthy." Charles said, and wrinkled his nose.

The world was still spinning, hazy and discolored, his bodyweight unbalanced. He tried to undo the buttons of his flannel shirt and found himself too uncoordinated, too big and bulky to manage it. He tried again, and failed, fingers slipping uselessly away.

He made an angry noise as his hands tugged at the garment. A deep, rattling breath coursed through him. Arthur couldn't help but tuck his face into his hands in shame and frustration. The world had come off its axis by the firm tug of a button string wound wrong. How a man who could stand bloodshed like a butcher and death like a soldier could come unraveled by one stubborn fastening of a shirt was lost to him. He was born into this sense of shame- it was raised into him. The tears did not come, stopped up and choked back. His grief clogged his lungs like the suppressive cling of heavy, wet clothing. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Charles." 

"I know."

"I didn't want to- I didn't want to do that."

"Mm." 

"I'm real sorry."

"Stop saying that. That man is the only one who's forgiveness you can ask, and he won't give it now." 

The shirt still clung unpleasantly to him, the texture of it making Arthur's skin crawl. He tugged weakly, fruitlessly at the neck of it with his hands. "I know, I know, I…" 

Charles' hands were broad as they were warm. One settled on a shoulder, the other on his chest, calmly and wordlessly working the buttons apart for him. It was moments like these in which Arthur remembered just how long he had denied himself the simple comfort of touch. His mind tossed and turned if he should push him away, his fear still louder than his yearning. He felt like a child, needing help to undress. 

The dirty shirt slipped from his shoulders in one movement, caught by the hole of one pocket on Charles thumb. With a cursory glance over him as if to check for wounds, he took it off and folded it carefully away, off to the side somewhere. Arthur tiredly obliged the kindness, following mechanically through the movements of getting undressed. That's all this was; kindness. Charles was kind. He didn't owe him this, but he did it anyway. "You don't have to help me."

Charles leveled him with a sincere, piercing look. "I want to. You helped me, before."

He felt bare, though he was still clothed plenty in his union suit and pants, not yet quite ready to shuck off the spats. 

"Why did this happen, Arthur? What did that man do to you?"

Arthur didn't answer. He couldn't think of a reason, no words to say to fix this. 

"Did you start it?"

"I did."

"I thought we were done with this." Charles' words could have been harsh, but his tone was steady. "Beating folks who didn't do a thing to deserve it."

"You didn't have to come get me. You didn't have to." 

"Of course I had to."

It must've been hard to look at something so horrible and still forgive it.

"I thought he was- I don't know. It's stupid."

"Talk to me."

He had a right to know. Staring down at his hands folded in his lap he replied, "Thought it was Micah."

".... Micah is very far away from here." 

"How do you know?"

"He's not dumb enough to just hang around towns drinking. Haven't you seen the _ Wanted _ signs?"

"Could say the same for me." Slumped in the chair and still desperately sucking in open-mouthed breaths as he fought to calm himself, Arthur shook his head. He'd seen them, but he felt silly now. "It was stupid." 

Charles didn't respond to that. "You'll hurt yourself if you stay so upset, Arthur." 

Arthur hid his face in his palms.

A hand rested on his shoulder. "I mean to say, you're wheezing. I don't want you to have another coughing fit. Please be careful."

"But we ain't-"

"We can talk about this come morning, it'll be better. Okay?"

Arthur couldn't think of a thing to say to rebuke him. Everything was shaking; the walls, the floor, his fallible heart. "Okay. Okay."

A hand was offered to him, palm upwards, patient. Pride forgotten he accepted it, standing on legs shakier than a newborn colt and as though on command, slumped forwards again. He didn't mean to. Didn't regret it, though, the instant the accident turned into a hug- a real, genuine hug. Charles' arms wound tightly around him, warm, reassuring. They were of a similar height but slumped over as he was he could feel the rise and fall of his breast as he breathed and, if he focused just enough, maybe even the dim, steady beat of his heart. He felt safe. Funny how the denial of tenderness could hurt worse than disease, could starve more fiercely than a drought. He wanted nothing more than to lean forward into that touch forever until he sank into him, to breathe the smell of him from the safety of his arms, to tuck his face into the flesh of his neck and feel his heartbeat there until they both fell asleep. He wanted to wrap himself in that security and to never let it go. 

But he didn't. 

He let go, and took a step back. They didn't speak much after that, separating to tend to their individual nightly duties, Arthur finally falling into the bedroll he'd laid out on the floor beside where Charles slept, hoping and praying he did not notice the way his heart had sped up to have been held by him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> But in Jewish tradition, asking forgiveness is a holy act. Struggling with the temptation to do something one knows is wrong and overcoming it is valued deeply. And once, many years ago, there were rituals that helped people share their struggles with their community, giving people the chance to make amends and have it seen publicly... ( - Rabbi Marisa Elana James.)


	14. history is written by fools.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Everything is full of a meaning you cannot see. You've long denied yourself the pleasantries of being human; they will not come easily to you, but they will come, regardless if you ask for them. Open for it."

Three days passed, and little changed between them. 

Arthur's brief slip back into his old ways did little damage to the quality of their conversations. If anything, Charles seemed to withhold his smile more on the first day, drawing back into himself. It didn't take much time or many apologies, however, for things to fade back into some semblance of normalcy; he was never not astounded by Charles' capacity for forgiveness. Charles taught him a recipe and he paid rapt attention, noting only the sound of his voice and the sizzle of fat in the cast iron pan. They rode, they walked, hunted and tended to the business of life on the road. It was nice. Calming.

Forgiven or not, Arthur was much rarer to forgive _himself_. Most days he felt, in some essence, washed clean of his sins predating the day on that mountainside, fighting Micah. Like he paid for it all in blood. But it was when he saw that his tendency towards violence had not lessened and neither had had his skill in murder- well, he still felt dirty. Heavy most of all, like there was lead in his boots. He tried to push on, and push it down.

On the road, they encountered the blind prophet, old and shriveled and hunched as he went on his weary way. Arthur had given him more money than he used to that time, finally seeing clearly how the man's guidance had spoken true. The man had looked blankly through him and said only, "Everything is full of a meaning you cannot see. You've long denied yourself the pleasantries of being human; they will not come easily to you, but they will come, regardless if you ask for them. Shame is cleansing, but you must tolerate being clean."

He didn't know what to make of it, but dropped him another dollar. 

Moonstone Pond was a beautiful place. Very few people had passed them on the roads out this way, the two of them mostly isolated from the rest of the world. Arthur preferred the west, certainly, for all the wilderness and heat; he loved the smell of petrichor, and the cool feeling of the desert breeze near sundown. Nonetheless he held love in him for all nature, particularly this area, so dense with green foliage that it seemed to go on forever, broken only periodically by great craggy rocks or cliff sides off in the distance, snow-capped and quiet. 

Arthur sat on a log and fretted silently over his own personal dilemmas, as he oft tended to do. Despite the radiant beauty of their surroundings his mind was restless, uneasy. His eyes kept trailing back to Charles, watching intently as he read his books, tied his hair back, smiled or laughed or washed his hands in the river. He wondered if it might make things easier if he loved him a little less. If only he could. Would it hurt, too?

But then- _ no _ , it didn't _ hurt _ to love Charles. It didn't hurt at all. It came easy to him, easy as breathing or horse riding or swimming, an old habit he couldn't quit. He felt almost addicted to the little bursts of tingling energy which shot up him every time he laid a hand on his shoulder, or touched him at all, really. He couldn't remember quite when the feeling started or when he truly noticed it building up within him but it was nothing if not potent, demanding and _ enticing._

He thought on the way Charles had touched his arm just earlier and felt frightened to think of what he could really do to him, if such a simple act could reduce him to this state. His heart pounded in his chest just to think of it. Arthur laid an arm over his breast, one hand on his shoulder, leaning forward as he peered out over the pond. He felt that grief and sense of shame seep into him again.

It didn't take long before Charles sought him out. Of course he did, the two always gravitating at some point or another to sit side by side, to while away the hours. Neither was unused to being alone. Neither wanted to be. He brought him a mug of steaming coffee, because of course he did. 

"This seat taken?" He asked, and Arthur wanted to wink, to laugh or respond playfully but the threat of his voice cracking kept him from it. He only nodded, gratefully taking the coffee in one hand and scooting aside to provide him more room. 

"It's beautiful today."

Arthur didn't want to talk about the weather. "Sure."

He cast him a sideways glance; not judgemental, never that, but curious, a closer inspection of his moody disposition. "Are you okay, Arthur?"

He tried to smooth the hunched line of his shoulders, tried to play at normal, jovial, calm, anything but the obvious face of a lonely man. Arthur swallowed, trying to soothe the frayed edges of his nerves, afraid to show frailty. He almost missed the company of cold people. Men who did not touch him or speak to him tenderly; who did not look at him like he was anything more than another criminal. He missed the days of blending in the background. Now, he could fool no one, not even himself.

There was too much in the world to talk about, too much in him to encapsulate in one conversation. He could spend a lifetime telling Charles all the complicated contradictions of his own mind and its strange influences, of all the ways he saw and experienced the world, what the hell he thought about all day in that secretive head of his. And he could, in turn, would willingly listen to Charles shake out his box of secrets, too. He tried to make it simple. 

"I miss how our life used to be. Miss a lot of things. Lot of folks. I don't feel quite right sometimes, livin' when I ought not have. When I robbed others of that chance."

"You saved my life."

"But I've stolen others."

"You can't take back what's been done."

"I know." He swallowed. "I've done terrible things."

"Sure." Charles didn't deny it. "You have."

"Then what've I ever done to deserve- well, _this_?" Arthur gestured to the idyllic scene around them. 

"Earn it, then, if it still weighs on you. Be better when you can."

"I don't know if I can."

"This life is long," Charles said, and his face grew very serious. He sighed. "It's long and it's hard and there's not much I've loved in it. But if there's one thing I know-" 

"That ain't true." Arthur swallowed thickly. He didn't want to call him a liar, didn't want to interrupt, but- "You've loved a lot of things. You've loved a lot more than I have; you _ love _ folks, and the world. Your family. Us. You treat everythin' well that's deservin' to be treated. You pay good attention."

Charles turned to look at him. He almost smiled. "So do you."

"How do you mean?"

"I've seen you drawing. Writing."

"It's just silly stuff. My scribblings ain't nothin' to preach about."

"What do you draw, Arthur?"

One hand protectively folded over his journal, though he knew full well that Charles would never, _ ever _ breach that boundary of trust and privacy like to swipe it away from him. Still, Arthur had to take his small precautions for the sake of his own anxious mind. "Just things I see. People, plants, animals. It's silly."

"It ain't silly." A hand extended to rest on top of his. He did not pry back his grip to have a look at the artwork himself; he did not try to squeeze his hand or search for any more comfort than was given. It was only a touch, gentle, open. "I'm sure they are beautiful."

"Nothin' special."

"Maybe not to you." His thumb ran soothingly over the back of his hand. "What do you write about?"

"My life." Arthur, on principle, did not open up to people this way. The door to his inner thoughts was not only locked, it was rusted shut in disuse. His hands trembled ever so slightly; Charles sparked a passion in him which he could scarcely describe. "I write about the people I know and the way my life's goin'. Frustrations, lists, the good things that happen. All of it."

"That's good."

"What's got you being so damn nice to me today?" Things were getting too serious; he was overcome by the desire to deflect, using humor as best he could. "You tryin' to get somethin' from me, Mister Smith?"

"Only if it works." He chuckled and shook his head, tapping the top of the book. "It's a new journal, isn't it?"

"Yeah. I lost.. I gave my last one to John. This one's a gift from Charlotte."

"She sounds like a good friend."

"She is." 

Charles was silent, for a second. He was so easy to be with. So soothing. His very presence was a balm, a cool gust of air over a burn. He never moved his hand away.

"You're a good person too, Arthur. I wouldn't stay here with you if you weren't."

He felt helpless, and small. "You don't have to. Stay here with me, I mean."

"I do. I can't go. I'd just come right back to find you."

> °

Arthur stared at Charles as he laid down to sleep. The fire crackled softly- the air felt clean and clear as it always did in the north, full with the sounds of rustling trees and the quiet bubbling of the creek. 

Arthur breathed hard through his nose, drawing up the confidence to speak. Cleared his throat. "I, uh.." 

Charles opened his eyes slowly, turning on one shoulder to look at him.

"For a long part of my life I hadn't never been to the sea. Hadn't been on anythin' bigger'n a lake. It's a shame, really. But sometimes… oh, sometimes," He stared hard at the sky above them, "When I couldn't sleep, Hosea told me this thing and I did it an awful lot. He told me, y'ain't got to be by the sea to hear it, n'to feel it. When it's windy out and the sky feels as big as it looks, just close your eyes real tight and listen. The wind rushin' through all those trees sounds just like the waves. Said if I couldn't sleep I should just imagine I was floatin', swayin' on the sea. I didn't know what the waves of the ocean sounded like until the boat, and Guarma, but I reckoned if they must've sounded like anythin' it'd be- it'd be this." 

Anxiousness swelled in him at having admitted something so frivolous, such a deep and sentimental memory which he'd shared with no one having not seen it as anything significant or worth the while. Arthur swiped his hand once over his face, wishing he could just prop his hat over his face already and pretend to sleep. Wishing he could sink far and deep into the ground. 

"My mother told me something similar, once." 

Arthur nodded, turned as well to lay on his shoulder and gaze at Charles across the distance between them with rapt focus. 

"I didn't like the way the wind made our house creak. I was very young, and I thought it was something big, a spirit or some monster from the dark trying to tip it over." Charles smiled wistfully. "I thought the creak of my door meant there was something on the other side trying to get in. My mother listened when I told her why I was afraid. She didn't tell me I was wrong. I don't know if she bought or made them, but she got me bells. Hung them right by the front door."

"What for?"

"She said it'd scare off anything which tried to come in uninvited. And when I asked why the house still creaked, she said it was just swaying with the bells. I didn't worry so much after that." 

"Your mama sounds like a good woman."

"She was." 

A long silence stretched between them. Arthur thought on the air, on bells and the waves of the ocean and what it must've been like to be young and have a mother to defend you from the scary things of the world. Charles held his eyes shut for a long time before abruptly sighing, lifting his head to tie his hair back with the leather band he kept around one wrist. Arthur tried hard not to stare. 

"Did you have much time with your mother?" 

Arthur blinked. He didn't know quite what to say, or rather, how to say it. "No. No, she- she didn't live half as long or as well as she'd've deserved to. Spent a few long years in that house, with me 'n Lyle, and…."

"Lyle was your father?"

"Unfortunately." 

"Hmm." 

"My mother was a good woman. Clever as a fox in a hen-house, with a heart much too big for her body. Real soft spoken and too patient for her own good. I….when I was real small and hadn't learned it for myself yet, y'know, she used to sit me down in her lap'n recite _ Modeh Ani _ with me. I couldn't never speak Hebrew too well- barely got a hold on English as it is, but she still tried t'teach me. I've never gone to school. It was all her."

"You still remember everything she taught you?"

"Not half as much as I ought to." 

“You don’t talk about them much.”

“Mhm. Dunno why. Sometimes it just feels like- feels like that was somebody else’s life. Weren’t mine at all. Think mine really started at fourteen, when I tried thievin’ from Hosea that day, n’not a second before."

Charles didn't look at him with pity. He found only cool, undemanding understanding in the look he gave. Open and honest. Some folks might have laughed at or criticized Arthur for his unmanly admittance of sensitivity, or for speaking with such sentimentality of his childhood. He didn't always feel like a _ man_. Really, he felt most like a man in the context of being loved by another man, and didn't care or think about it at all otherwise. Sometimes he wondered if Charles felt the same at all.

The cold coil of anxiety Arthur carried in his belly slackened and relaxed, the tension easing from him. The night air chilled him and the trees sounded like the sea. 

"Arthur?" 

"Mm?"

"You want to come to lay by me?"

He tried not to be too desperate about his enthusiasm, only nodding, swallowing thickly as he climbed off his bedroll, meagre blanket in one hand and his hat in the other. He stood and peered down at him for a moment. Charles offered him a serious look, pointedly patting the earth beside him. "C'mon. It's cold."

Arthur settled in beside Charles, still too unsure of himself to initiate any contact. The blanket was thin and chewed through by critters, the saturated blue of the fabric long since bleached by the sun. All he could do was lay flat on his back and mentally berate himself for acting like some starstruck schoolboy, trying his best to get comfortable. Charles, clearly having decided he was done with all of Arthur's restless fidgeting, slung a warm and heavy arm over his middle, pulling him closer without a moment's hesitation. Unlike himself, Charles evidently wasn't scared of touch or its implications. His touch was undemanding; simple human contact. Warm. Reassuring. Charles leaned in and pressed a tender kiss to Arthur's forehead; Arthur felt petrified, frozen in time, melting under the swell of emotions. He tucked himself closer to the other man.

Such intimacy was completely foreign to him. He had been in such a way with Mary, with Eliza, and surely had cared for them both in his own way, but- something here was different. Arthur was shocked by the realization that such closeness did not have to feel forced, or dutiful; a simple intimate gesture didn't have to function as some kind of reward or prepayment for future favors, or to suit the expectations upheld of a relationship. Because whatever this was between them was free of expectation, free of any ties to bind it. 

Loving a man was so very different. He had always been aware of his own inclinations but scarcely had the chance to act on them, much less with someone who he held so dear to his heart. He felt whole, for the first instance in a very long time- perhaps he had never really felt whole in this precise way, this gap in his desires and dreams left perpetually unfulfilled but for the fleeting experiences in his youth. 

The world felt quiet and peaceful. He lay there like that for some time, Charles sliding in closer to rest his head against Arthur's shoulder, who slowly succumbed to the inviting darkness of sleep and the sound of the sea. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I am with him, smoking or talking quietly ahead, or whatever it maybe, I see, beyond my happiness the intimacy, occasional glimpses of the happiness of 1000s of others whose names I shall never hear, and know that there is a great unrecorded history. (E.M. Forster (1879-1970) about Mohammed el-Adl.)


	15. seek all the bounty of this place.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles was sure of it now that he had never experienced anything like this before in his life. It was well worth the wait. All that loneliness, the isolation, the running and the hiding- Arthur was worth all of it. A chance, even slight, at peace and stability was worth all of it. It was difficult not to cry.

O'Creagh's run was just as beautiful as Arthur had claimed it to be. Just as quiet, too, an empty and cavernous space of lakes and craggy cliff sides; alive with wolves and boars and fish and all the other sorts of things that he had very evidently liked to hunt, judging by the heads and skins which still hung proudly in the dead man's house. Their journey here had been relatively calm, full of intermittent brushes of hands. Arthur had even been so bold as to give him a kiss on the cheek when they woke up today. The relief he felt to see those barriers come down, and to bring down his own, was enormous.

Arthur sighed, putting out his cigarette. "This place is beautiful." 

"It is." Charles couldn't have agreed more. The area was beautiful; he'd long since readjusted his desire for open country. More than anything, he just wanted to stay somewhere tucked away, comfortable and safe, far from the reaches of civilization and greed. He almost laughed at himself- to think, _Charles Smith_, who'd spent all of recent memory on the run and mostly alone, wanting for nothing more than a life of comfort and ease. Sure, knowing his and Arthur's reputations for attracting the strange and unusual, there would be frequent breaks in the peace, but he didn't mind so much. So long as he had a bed to call his own and he wasn't hunted, that was enough for him. That was fulfilling. He wondered what Arthur wanted. Cleared his throat; "It wouldn't be so bad to stay here a while." 

He shrugged. "Sure. I think we should." 

_We_. He smiled. "How often did you and Hamish hunt around here, again?" Charles asked, and glanced up at him from his seat on the front porch.

The house itself had been ransacked of material goods- food, money, jewels and books and little trinkets were all clearly missing. The good things stayed, though. The bed, the stove, the trunk missing its key and all the original decorations- or so he understood from Arthur's happily surprised reaction. 

"Oh… three, four times?" Arthur leaned comfortably against the doorway, looking oddly at home against the backdrop of the snow-capped mountains, one hand on his belt, framed by the quaint old wood of the house. "Say, you want coffee? Looks t'me the stoves still in workin' condition." 

"Mm, in a bit, thank you." The air was cool and refreshingly clean. A trout leapt up into the air over the lake, out towards the island. The cicadas hummed quietly in the late afternoon light. The line of trees between the house and the road was dense and darkly green. "I like it here."

"Me too. I liked comin' out here."

"This is where you got that horse."

"Buell."

"What ever happened to him?"

"He didn't make it. Wish I could say I didn't know, say he's grazin', bein' a real son of a bitch of a horse elsewhere pretty." Arthur shoved his hands in his pockets, staring out at the view. His eyes were a bit watery. "He was a _good_ horse. Got me out, up until the very last minute, kept pushin' 'til he just couldn't no more. Wouldn't've made it without him." 

Charles nodded. "I'm sorry you lost him."

"Yeah." He glanced up to catch a quick look of remorse flick over his features. "Feels strange bein' here without either of 'em."

"Sounds like you did as well as you could by them both."

"Should've gone with him when he went huntin' that damn animal." 

"You can't save everyone, Arthur."

"... Yeah. You can't." 

He inhaled slowly, shifting in his seat to look up at him more directly. Arthur now had one elbow up against the frame, leaning out just a bit to peer down at him. 

"I remember you disappearing a little longer than usual, once or twice." Arthur had always been a bit of a drifter in comparison to the more stationary members of the gang, always in and out, coming back with heavy pockets, bad news, a gunshot wound or a buck on one shoulder and a pheasant in hand. Made him curious just as much as it concerned him, most days. "Was it here that you came?" 

Arthur shrugged. "Don't remember exactly _ when _, just that it was good huntin'. Real fun. Think I forgot sometimes those days that it was alright to have a little fun."

"Things did get serious." 

"Can say that twice."

He hummed. "I don't think we've had enough fun since I've gotten you back." He tried not to overthink his own phrasing, moving to stand.

Arthur stared. "How d'you mean?"

"I mean, we never did get to celebrate, between the bounty hunters and the swamp and all of them monsters."

"Suppose you're right. What're you thinkin'? Afraid to admit I've barely got enough whiskey for a shot, much less'n a party." 

"It's just the two of us. Besides, handsome as you are once you've had a bottle, that's not what I had in mind." Charles smiled, noting the color that toned Arthur's cheeks and the flustered way he ducked his head as though to hide. "Say- the lake looks nice, and the weather's good. When's the last time we got to wash?"

He guffawed. "Wait! Your idea of fun is takin' a dang bath?" 

"You're filthy as a dog and you smell like one too. _ Priorities _." 

Arthur clearly tried to look offended, but it was easily undermined by his humored grin. He wordlessly moved to undo his belt, chuckling as he followed Charles over to the horses to get their things.

> °

With soap and all in hand and guns and clothing put by the wayside, the two waded into the shoulder high water. The afternoon sky was a soft, warm blue, dashed by saturated orange and yellow clouds; the roads were silent, the air still.

Charles leaned back to dip his head in the water. It was fresh and clear, a cool relief against the sweat and grime of such a long day on the road. He stood, moved to scrub his hair with the last of the soap he'd had in his pack, and was stopped midway. "Wait," Arthur interjected in the softest tone he had ever heard from him. "Lemme, ah, lemme help you." 

There were no words. How could there be? This was uncharted territory. Admittedly, he didn't know what he'd expected to happen once they actually got into the lake.

Charles could scarcely recall the last time he'd been touched without the intent of harm- _ really _ touched, thoroughly, kindly, free of prerequisites or expectations. He couldn't say a thing. No verbal yes or no, couldn't move but to nod wordlessly, moving incrementally closer. Giving silent permission, and turning his back to him.

Arthur took a moment to actually start. He could hear him breathe. Could almost hear the whir of his thoughts. Then one hand extended to press against where his back met his neck; another joined by its side, resting and applying firm pressure, as if he were getting familiar with the sensation himself. Then the other man began to knead the tension away. Thorough, strong hands pressed and pulled, pushed gently between the blades of his shoulders, rubbed at the base of his neck, tenderly pressed to his spine, touch calloused but strangely soft and floral with soap and warm against the cold of the river. Everything else in the world seemed to fade into the backdrop, nature nothing but a blur, night a comfortable shroud to guard them from prying eyes. Charles hummed and sighed, the release of the tension he hadn't known he'd been carrying such an immense relief that he nearly felt he might cry. He did not turn, cast no glance across his shoulder, did not speak. He couldn't, he couldn't.

What had he ever done to earn such gentleness? When had anyone last treated him with such care? Charles was suddenly struck by the memory of being a small child in the bath, his mother laughing as she splashed him, his own joy- all so familial, so very different than this, but striking in the fact that it had been so very long since he had been loved this way that the closest memory was among his most distant. He trembled.

He did, however, lean back into the touch. Arthur came closer; he could feel his presence only inches from himself, his skin so close, his long hair mingling among his own. His breath against his cheek..

"This alright?" Arthur asked, his voice low and calm though ridden with underlying concern. Charles couldn't reply. He settled to place one hand over Arthur's where it was pressed against his left shoulder- a reassuring squeeze, a nod, a huff. "Can help me with my hair, too."

"You sure?"

"Mhm."

With new confidence, Arthur went on to soap up his hands before sinking his fingers into Charles' tight curls, massaging his scalp with a firm and repetitive pressure. Then- a thrill shot up his spine upon realizing what was happening- Arthur gently kissed his shoulder blade. Only once, hesitant, tender as anything, and upon facing no argument went on to do it again, and again, again across the broad width of his back and to the outer edge of his jaw. His lips brushed against his cheek, stubbles rubbing together in a way that made them both laugh quietly with one another. Charles was sure of it now that he had never experienced anything like this before in his life. It was well worth the wait. All that loneliness, the isolation, the running and the hiding- Arthur was worth all of it. A chance, even slight, at peace and stability was worth all of it. It was difficult not to cry.

He could feel his own heartbeat in his throat, in his hands, in every tender quiet place yet left untouched. He felt bare and at risk, open to injury or shame as anyone might when unclothed around another. They'd bathed close by time and time again; privacy was a luxury to people who lived together in the forest, and it had never been a matter of embarrassment during his upraising. 

Nonetheless, he felt bare. He didn't feel scared. Felt no need to cover himself or to shy away. He felt terror, yes, but he wasn't scared, he wouldn't jump or flinch or hide but he couldn't deny the bone-deep sense of terror that love instilled in him. Intimacy was something better left to those who'd practiced it. It was the stuff of stories, all pomp and circumstance. The intimacy he read about in books wasn't like this; that was all about external attraction, about two people simpering over each other and held apart only by the issues of other people, the constraints of time or law or parentage. This intimacy was different. This was peeling back the layers of your heart like an orange, this was cutting down the tree, killing it to read the rings, to understand it's story. There was an inherent sense of panic attached to the experience of being seen. Touched, understood.

Arthur, having already cleaned himself quite thoroughly, seemed to decide they were done once the soap had been washed clear from him. They stood for some time, still, as if moving would shatter the moment. He spoke quietly, the hesitance clear in his tone. "Is this..s'this alright with you?"

Charles couldn't help but smile. "Is what alright with me?" He glanced coyly over his shoulder. Arthur was bright red in the face.

"I mean- this." A hand on his shoulder. Every touch still radiated a comfortable warmth, drew a low shiver out from him. "Us. Me bein'- bein' so forward."

"Isn't that a question better left for _ before _ you bathe a man?"

"I-"

Charles turned before he could stutter out the inevitable apology he'd known to expect. Arthur and his shame. "I don't mind." A slow smile spread across his features, meant to be reassuring. He thumbed across Arthur's cheek, settling to cup both sides of his jaw. "I like it."

His fingertips carded across the softness of his beard, up to lightly massage his scalp, pulling lightly at the shoulder-length hair which so charmingly curled at the ends when let grow long. He shut his eyes under the gentle ministrations, his face hot beneath Charles' hands, breath come in slow drags drawn in through the nose. He nuzzled his face into the scarred hand that pressed so gently against it, brows knitted tightly together in a look of absolute focus. He must've been overwhelmed. Charles thought on it, realizing that while he had gone long without the touch of another it might've been much the same time for Arthur, as tense and drawn into himself as he tended to be. His smile almost ached, it stayed so long. He leaned in closer, breath mingling with Arthur's, nose mere inches from pressing to his. "Can I kiss you, Arthur?"

They had kissed before, yes, but something this time felt different. Much more intimate. It might've been the lack of clothing, or perhaps the clarity of Arthur no longer being so sick, them finding themselves out in the open, in the night and fresh air with the clouds staring down from above. Arthur didn't say a thing. Maybe _ couldn't _. He seemed tense, pulled taut by his nerves, hands hovering over Charles arms, lacking the confidence they had possessed before. Charles carefully looped one arm around Arthur's waist, the other still cradling the back of his head, trying hard to catch a look at his eyes. "It's alright to say no." 

Before Charles could even think to move and pull away Arthur was on him. All mouth and hands, hot and fast and sure as the spark that'd burst between them from the moment they'd first shaken hands and that touch had echoed warmly through his nerves for hours to come- sure as he was that he loved him and sure as he was afraid to say it. His lips were against his own, soft and warm, even more vividly alive and firm than he had thought they might be every time he'd watched, captivated, Arthur raise a bottle of whiskey to them. 

Then came a bite, gentle and playful and backed by suppressed laughter and he knew all at once, really _ knew _ that this was Arthur he was kissing. Rowdy, ruthless, loving Arthur, his tongue brushing against his own. Big strong hands buried themselves into his hair and tugged. Charles was quick enough in his instincts to return the favors of physical comfort; his own hands rubbed Arthur's back, pulled him right to his chest to cradle him there as they sunk deeper into the kiss, lips parting. All at once he understood why women in dime romance novels compared the feeling of kissing to that of melting.

Arthur's kisses then moved from his mouth elsewhere. Gentle, closed-mouth kisses peppered all across his face, from his scarred cheeks to his chin and the broad bridge of his nose, against his brow and upon his closed, fluttering eyelids. Arthur's beard tickled his skin. He shuddered, unused to such treatment, unused to being the object of anyone's affection really, much less to someone so very attentive. The kisses trailed to his cheek and down to his jaw, their breaths intermingling in harsh puffs. There they pressed, warm and urgent against the sensitive skin of his neck and collarbone. Arthur's hands gripped both sides of his face when he came back to _ really _ kiss him just once more, lingering as long as he could without choking on the lack of air. They parted, panting, wide-eyed, hair clean but freshly made unruly. 

Arthur laughed. 

"What?" Charles managed, breaths coming in short bursts. 

"Nothin', just- nothin'. I'm just happy." His hand never left the side of his face, his palm gentle against his cheek. "I'm real happy." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will wash your hair at night and dry it off with care,  
I will see your body bare  
and still I will live here. ( - I Will, Mitski.)


End file.
